


the land behind

by salrokka



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dreamsharing, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Kissing, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Rogue Lavellan - Freeform, Smut, Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-03-22 19:56:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 36,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3741673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salrokka/pseuds/salrokka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lavellan has a story and a long list of mistakes all her own when she arrives at the Conclave with no titles, no fame, and apparently no purpose at all. When the titles, fame, and purpose are handed to her by the Inquisition, that list of mistakes begins to haunt her.</p><p>Solas believes he can help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. behind

_Thief._ Someone yells and there is pounding against pavement, bare skin on cold slush, then solid ice. Her breath catches and she watches him fall. _Thief._ Ears like knives, no longer a rabbit with gold in your pocket and a meal in your hand. Steel bites into skin, ripping away the threads that kept life, tearing out blood and displacing it--it splatters onto snow. Red red white white red. Her stomach clenches. Ears like knives--ears like knives. She withdraws hers and polishes it, calculating a death.

Then a montage: one death, two deaths, three deaths, four. Slitting throats and opening bodies with sharp silver blades. Five deaths, six deaths, seven deaths, eight. Poison, now, an arrow through the skull. Each time she feels a sick regret and she feels like screaming: You made me into an animal.

It feels like minutes that she must stare at the blood in the snow, like cherries and cream. No, say what it is. It is a sickness.

Here come the worst bits and she knows to expect them. Her skin is slick with sweat, beads of it falling down the small hills and valleys of her ribcage. Her heart beats so quickly it feels like her chest is empty. Her own organs are packing their bags, and how can she blame them?

First: she hovers above and watches events unfold from the corner of a room, the images distorted like she is watching through imperfect glass. There is her own body, dissociated from her spirit, and he calls her an animal. The word bites, but it is not untrue. A body already on the floor, spilling out blood too quickly. Her far form moves towards this body and presses her energy against his wound, trying out of desperation to stem the flow. Lifeless eyes blink and somehow he looks at her, then he begins to push himself from the ground. Coughing. Arrow through the skull. Then the rest doesn’t happen and it does, there is more blood, three bodies dead and two left alive (her own and another).

She lingers for a moment before the scene changes.

Second: this one is brief. It is her own guilt painted as red on her hands and her failures streaking down her face. Her body is thin and covered in bruises and healed wounds, her eyes sunken and her chest heaving. Ears like knives, sharpened now. She is sobbing. This is regret. This is regret. Lightning rips through the sky, its light deepens the fallen bits of her body, then thunder matches the symphony of thuds in her head. So near death---wouldn’t it be nice? Isn’t it what she deserves? Nine deaths, ten...

Here is the newest one. Green light spills from a rift in the fade and her hand is throbbing. Energy crackles from her skin and she is momentarily distracted by the pain that shoots up her arm, ripping open old wounds. She tries to whirl, sensing movement from behind. A demon (she does not know what kind) is bearing down on her, close, its sharp edges threatening to rip into her body. Ice--fractals of ice crawl up its face and crawl inside its mouth. A twist of the magic in the air and the ice seems to shatter--the demon goes with it. She looks behind her and sees the apostate. Recognition but too wary for thanks. _Quickly, before more come through._ He grabs her wrist and threads spin from the rip in her skin, piecing together broken bits and sewing them shut.

_What did you do?_

She knows the answer and so does not hear it, instead attempting to focus her vision and steady her breath. She stares at her hand: it is no longer red.

She looks up, the world has gone white, a shock of white, and there she is again with red red red blue, sobbing. Dirty. Dying. She approaches herself and reaches out, tries to touch, her fingers turn to blades, the world goes sour, the light is blinding---


	2. land

Eyes shot open and vision blurred. A sharp inhale of breath. She was disoriented from the dream, and now from the tan canvas walls of the tent, which were not shaped or colored like aravels, or like the trees, or anything she had once known so well. She rolled over, untucking her hands from underneath her pillow. Her breath was irregular, quick, and she tried to find something to focus on in an effort to steady her mind. Her eyes traced the black lines that curved on the canvas above her, forming the shape of an eye and the sharp edges of a sword. The Inquisition. _Right._ Quenyah noticed the sweat, now, tasted it on the top of her lip where it had gathered like drops of dew. A thin layer of it coated her body and chilled her hot skin, shiny in the dim morning light that pressed against the canvas tent.

Dreams. Nightmares. She’d been having them most nights since she had left the clan for the Conclave, but they were exacerbated after she had received the mark. It had wrenched and twisted her internally, pulling away layers of protection against reminiscence and regret that she had spent years building. The elf held her hand straight out above her, examining the green light that split her palm, the depthless emerald scar that marked her as a miracle, the Herald of Andraste. She bit her lip. Each morning she went through a process of reorientation: her environment, her companions, even her own body.

She dropped her hand and ran her fingers through her hair, smoothing back the damp curls stuck to her forehead with sweat. _The Herald._ She touched the notch in the cartilage of her left ear, felt the healed, scarred edges. Images from the night burst into her thoughts like unwelcome guests, catching shocks of red and white as broken reflections on a shattered mirror.

There was no better way to shake the nightmares than to hunt. And in that line of thought, they had left Haven for the Hinterlands four days ago and had not had fresh meat since. A win for everyone, then.

Evidently overnight she had kicked the blankets off and they now lay in a pile near her feet, tangled up with the clothes she had folded so neatly the previous evening. Careful not to wake the sleeping woman next to her, Quenyah pulled the Inquisition regular leathers over her head and eyed Cassandra’s sharp face, now almost serene in sleep. It was strange that her first impressions of the Seeker were of a power-crazed human, and that now she found herself appreciating very much Cassandra’s kindness and her resolve. She was self-aware and morally convicted in a way that Quenyah envied, and perhaps did not previously believe could be possible for a human.

Quenyah stood slightly hunched and opened the canvas flap, shivering as cold air rushed inside to displace the stagnant, sleepy heat that lingered in the tent. The Hinterlands were painted in a blue glow, the frosted tips of grass looking alien underneath the spread of sparkling trees thick with morning dew. A strip of red edged the horizon. She heard Cassandra stirring and turned to see her clutching her blankets, pulling her limbs closer to her body. Quenyah added her own blankets on top of the sleeping woman and then left her, grabbing her boots, her bow, and a quiver as she exited the tent.

It would only take an hour or so to hunt, and then she would be back in time for the group to begin waking up. They had early mornings due mostly to Cassandra’s insistence, but they managed not to wake before the sun was up due mostly to Varric’s dedication to achieving a rational amount of sleep. Quenyah and Solas actively avoided the pair’s bickering, only intensified lately by their near constant proximity.

“Preparing for a hunt, I take it?” Ah, speaking of the mysterious elven mage, there he was. Solas was unusually adept at surprising her. _Quickly, before more come through._ She winced at the memory of her dream and then gathered herself, taking a deep breath.

“ _On dhea_ , Solas. Perceptive. Did the bow give it away, or do I just look particularly predatory this morning?”

“I suppose it must have been a combination of the two.”

Quenyah finished off her braid and secured it with a band, tucking in the red strands that refused conformity with the rest of the group. The humidity in the air tightened the curls, creating a layer of frizz that sat atop her hair, a wisp of a cloud. “Did you need something?” He was lingering.

“I wondered if hunting alone was the wisest choice.”

“You doubt my skills?”

He smiled a little. “No, anyone with sense would not dare to make the accusation that you are lacking in skill.” He clasped his hands behind his back and wandered nearer to her, in that practiced, careful stride of his. One foot placed in front of the other in a measured line. “I only meant that we have now arrived in the Hinterlands, a region covered in rifts and demons, rogue templars fighting senseless mages. It would be smart to exercise an amount of caution.”

Quenyah felt more aware of her own posture when Solas was around. His back always straight, chin held high, and yet he avoided appearing stiff. His movements were fluid. “What are you suggesting? I don’t think any of our companions would be of much help on a hunt. Varric may have a crossbow, but it might as well launch bombs instead of arrows, the way he uses it.”

He nodded. Was that a smile? “I, however, am not entirely unskilled and would be willing to accompany you, should you accept the help.”

She had finally finished lacing her boots. The complex Dalish weave she had learned in childhood came so naturally to her, yet this simple shem pattern felt so foreign to her fingers, and she fumbled constantly with the movements. “To be honest with you, Solas, I suppose my true intention is to get a bit of solitude. Taking along a companion would not help much in the realization of that goal.” She looked up at him and smiled a little. “I promise I won’t wander far, _hahren_.”

She tried to gauge his reaction, but it did not appear that he was offended at all in her rejection. Rather, he still looked inquisitive, like the conversation was not at all over. In the many ways that all the bits of Cassandra were so clear, direct, unhidden (she wore her feelings in her features and let them guide her words, unchecked by a filter), Solas was the opposite in each. He was hazy, hard to read, guarded. He spoke with only rare hesitation, but Quenyah had the sense that everything he said had another meaning obscured in vague language, glossed over by the low and confident tone of his voice.

“Then I will be honest with you, _da’len_.” Solas was standing near to her now and she stood up from her position near the campfire, finally finished in outfitting herself for the hunt. “The previous three nights of our journey I have noticed a disturbance in the Fade, and I have determined it is coming from you. Your dreams, in particular. They are... loud.”

She wondered exactly what that meant. Was he catching glimpses of her dreams or merely feeling their reverberations? And if the latter, what did that even feel like? In any normal situation, she would have asked. She was curious, but her embarrassment at being discovered prevented her from asking. “I apologize. I didn’t realize. I’ll--”

Solas shook his head and exhaled, a small white cloud forming where the heat of his breath hit the air. “You misunderstand me. I wanted to offer my help.”

Oh. She fiddled with her bow. “What form would that help take?”

“It is simple enough. I would only require your permission to enter your dreams, and from there I could assist you in altering their subject matter, guiding them along a more pleasant path.”

“Then I must decline.”

“Herald, you--”

“Don’t call me that.” Immature, yes, but she was on edge. Her face felt hot.

“ _Lavellan_ , then. You must know it is childish to suffer under false pretenses of self-sacrifice. No one would think less of you for accepting help when you are in need.” His voice was chastising and low.

She became aware, then, of what she must look like to him. Red-rimmed, sleepless eyes and purple lids, like they had been painted with watercolors. Frizzy hair, pale skin, flushed cheeks. In a word: terrible. In two words: pathetically terrible. “Now you are misunderstanding _me_.” Her voice was soft. She sat down on the log unceremoniously placed near the campfire, the ashes and broken wood still glowing in the morning fog. “It isn’t that I don’t want your help, only that I’d prefer my dreams not be an open book. Surely, _hahren_ , you must appreciate the need for a little privacy, at least in this.” She looked up at him.

“Ah.” A look of recognition crossed his face, and Quenyah surmised that her appeal to Solas’ sympathy had connected with him more than she had even intended. His eyes narrowed and his posture shifted slightly, like he was fiddling with his fingers behind his back. He took a seat next to her. “Then let me offer a somewhat less intrusive alternative. I know of a meditation that aids in control over one’s dreams... magically enhanced, it should be sufficient to allow you to guide your dreams without the requirement of my presence.”

“I’d appreciate that, Solas.”

“I will plan on speaking more with you tonight, then.”

“ _Ma serannas._ Really, it is kind of you.” Quenyah felt a pang in her chest. What was the word for what she was feeling? Familiarity, maybe. In this place, where everything was foreign and the things she did recognize did not recall fond memories, familiarity was a rare and welcome feeling. Though it was odd to find this in Solas. He was elven, but nothing like the elves of her clan.

“What is it?” He said.

Oh, she was staring. “Nothing. It’s just that...” She sought the words. “You remind me of something. Someone, maybe.”

“Oh?” He looked away and smiled a little (for the second time, she noted). “That has not been said about me very often.”

Again, she felt like he said something simple and yet meant something completely different, as if he was telling a joke that only he understood. “Perhaps I just have a habit of befriending mysterious and polite elven apostates.”

He laughed and she smiled at him. She dug her nails into her palm and expected a little amount of pain, but received instead a shock from the split mark on her hand. It responded with a little crackling, a small green spark like a gentle nudge, a reminder.

That served to clear her head a bit. Quenyah stood up and adjusted the quiver slung across her back. “If you’ve no further objections, Solas, I would still like to hunt today. If only for a little while.”

“No, I’ve no further objections.”

“Good.” She slung the quiver around her back and stood up. “I’ll try to return before Cassandra can accuse you of allowing me to venture into unknowable danger. We wouldn’t want you to be imprisoned. Not so early in the day, anyway.” She smiled at him and turned away, heading down from their hill-top camp site.

“Please do. Good hunting, _da'mi_.”

He breath caught and she felt her muscles tense.

Oh.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On dhea - good morning  
> Da'mi - little blade


	3. in front

The sun was high and warm in the Hinterlands. Fall had a loose grasp on the foliage, kissing a few trees gold and maroon, loosing a cool breeze through the hills and cliffs. The Herald’s small team of companions had been fighting through packs of rogue Templars and mages all morning and had only recently been relieved by the addition of Inquisition scouts, a welcome indication that they were near their destination. They were tired, in need of supplies, and weary of each other's company. While they had each committed to the Inquisition in one way or another, and they had been traveling together for several days, each seemed to have trouble extending trust, working into a comfortable relationship. Conversations were kept light or dropped. 

“Cassandra, how do you do that thing?” Quenyah broke the silence they had fallen into while walking, and matched Cassandra's strides.

“It depends. What are you referring to?” The Seeker did not break her steady gaze forward.

“It’s like this--” Lavellan whipped out a blade and struck the air with it while attempting to mimic Cassandra’s twirling movements. “--and then you do this.” She pulled the other blade from its sheath and angled it, knocking away an imaginary attacker.

“You would need to have a shield to accomplish the move properly.” Whether she was irritated or amused by Lavellan’s display, she did not betray it through tone. Cassandra kept one hand loosely holding her sword’s hilt and the other at her side, and maintained a stride that complimented her easy confidence. She had a streak of wet, crimson blood along her jawline. Almost picturesque, really.

Quenyah spun one of the blades in her hand. “I think I could repurpose it for my blades. The way you took out that templar!” She mimicked Cassandra again, adding sound effects to her movements this time. “Wham! You truly are impressive. I’ve never seen anyone fight like you do.”

“Careful, Herald, you’re making our dear Seeker blush.” Varric said from behind, chuckling. He and Solas were several paces back from Quenyah and Cassandra, who was now frowning at the turn in conversation and the inclusion of Varric's voice.

Quenyah laughed. “Perhaps that was my intention. The rosy glow makes it easier to admire her cheekbones.” She sheathed her blades and looked back at Varric.

He smiled back at her. “It’s the blood splatter that really gives them definition.”

Cassandra groaned and wiped at the blood on her face with the back of her hand. “You two are unbearable.”

“I consider Cassandra’s technique to be quite traditional,” Solas said. It was not unusual for Solas to join in on the group’s often inane conversations, but it usually served to divert the topic’s direction. 

“What do you mean, Solas?” Quenyah said, slowing her pace a little to widen the group’s walking formation.

“You said you have not seen anyone fight like Cassandra. I do not mean to diminish the Seeker’s skill, only to say that I think she tends to a very regular style. She wields her blade with exceptional proficiency, but her technique is not outside the standard.”

Cassandra groaned. “ _Must_ you all speak like I am not present?” Her grip on her sword was a little less loose.

Quenyah hummed. “I suppose I have not met many warriors, then. The hunters in my clan were never trained to fight like Cassandra fights.” The group had now broken into the main thoroughfare of the Hinterlands, where refugees gathered. Families, now broken and bruised, clung to what little safety the valley offered. Inquisition soldiers would be later following the Herald’s group in order to fully secure the area now that they had removed the most immediate threat, though the forward scouts had already placed their flags along the roads. 

Cassandra looked at the elf while she paused to scan the area, pale shadows from leaves and bits of sunlight dappling her skin, illuminating her gold vallaslin. “You have not spoken of your clan often, Herald.”

Quenyah looked up and offered a small smile. “No one asks.” In fact, most avoided the discussion entirely. Cassandra blinked and processed. She made a face when confronted with new information (eyes narrowed, gaze towards the ground, lips pressed together), and she was making that face now. The Herald considered her for a moment. Impressive in her faith, irritating in her dogmatism, the Seeker had not yet proved herself a friend, and perhaps Quenyah should be less hasty to give her curiosity an invitation. “In any case, let’s go find Mother Giselle.”

As the group approached, two of Leliana’s scouts bowed their heads and laid their fists across their chests. Quenyah floundered for a moment--the proper response was completely eluding her, though she was sure Josephine had coached her in this. She looked up at Cassandra, who tipped her head quickly and nodded in her direction. Lavellan mirrored the movement in the scouts direction and they relaxed. "We are glad of your arrival, Herald."

“Where can I find Giselle?”

“On that hill, in the surgeon’s camp, Your Worship.”

Of all the unusual titles and honorifics that had been bestowed on her, this was her least favorite. She bristled a little and thumbed her blade’s hilt. “Ah, _ma serannas. Pala adahl’en_.” _Thank you._ _Go fuck a forest_. Let them be the ones made uncomfortable by unfamiliar and unwelcome language. She heard a short noise from behind her, something between a laugh and a cough. She stiffened, realizing that Solas had understood her. Getting caught being childish was enough to shame her into making some amends with the scouts. "It means: Thank you, for your service to the Inquisition." 

She was aware that this was her first real trial, as her role within the Inquisition was, at this point, constantly in question. Merely a tool to deal with the rifts or a potential leader within the organization’s ranks? An errand boy or a symbol? A knife-ear or an exception? While Mother Giselle had requested her by name, it was still a test. In these early days, _everything_ felt like a test. Cassandra and Leliana’s questions, Josephine’s lessons, they were all an attempt at placing her into a neat category, to minimize and exploit her. She did not have to be reminded of this.

It was time to send a message to the Inquisition that she would not fade away easily. It was time to begin to grab at and build the modicum of power she had been granted.

As she walked up the path that wound the hill to the camp, Quenyah touched the edge of her scarred ear and steeled herself. In the camp, a woman in Chantry clothing sat whispering to a man who groaned in pain on a cot, the metal embellishments on her red garments and structured veil shimmered in the sunlight. That silhouette seemed so familiar, but Quenyah could not imagine where she could have seen it before. “You must be Mother Giselle.”

The woman stood. “I am. And you must be the one they are calling the Herald of Andraste.”

It was a question, a request for self-definition. Quenyah clasped her hands behind her back, pulled her shoulders up and back. “I _am_ the Herald of Andraste. I have come here as a representative of the Inquisition.” She bowed. "How can the Inquisition aid you, Mother?"  


	4. around

They waited until Cassandra and Varric retired to their separate tents. The sleeping situation was all but solidified on the first night of travel--Varric made one joke too many about the Seeker’s stiffness and then there were sudden Inquisition restrictions placed on co-ed tent arrangements. Nobody had any objections, and if they did, they were squashed by Cassandra’s glare and the grip on her sword.

It was quieter when the other two were gone. Quenyah had gotten to know Solas only briefly in Haven, seeking him out to accompany him while he gathered herbs in the surrounding wilderness, cautiously provoking him into a discussion on his opinions of the Dalish. His thoughts were... surprising. He refused connection with both the Dalish elves and those that lived in alienages, and he seemed to have very little friends outside of the Fade. Quenyah had met few elves that did not rely on, and actively seek out, the help of other elves. He was unusual. Fascinating.

When he had offered to teach her a meditation, she had not really contemplated what that would entail. Her upcoming meeting with Mother Giselle (now a completed mission) had all but dominated the thoughts in her mind, and when there was free space available those scenes that pierced her dreams night after night took up the mantle.

And now she knew what his offer entailed: Solas, sitting cross legged on the ground in front of her, eyes closed, one hand held aloft, beads of obsidian wrapped around his forearms, his other handing holding hers. Though she had no beads of her own, Quenyah attempted to mirror this pose. He inhaled deeply and opened his eyes, catching her intent gaze, but not breaking it.

“Are you ready, da’mi?”

“Go ahead, hahren.”

“Good. Focus on your breathing--try to keep it regulated, prolong each breath until you reach a rhythm.”

She did as instructed. Her eyes closed and she narrowed her thoughts to the feel of his hand in hers, the beads that draped over his wrist and rested against her fingertips. Inhale. Exhale.

“Now visualize a happy moment, preferably one from your own experiences. I will then begin to aid the process with my mana.”

Lavellan nodded. She chose memories from childhood, from her adventures with friends at the edge of the Tirashan, from her mother teaching her how to use a bow, from... Oh. She suddenly felt the flow of magic from Solas, slipping up her arm like a glove. It felt cool. It felt like silk. She knew silk from the first conversation she had with Josie alone, when she had asked to feel the material of the ambassador’s shirt, a material she had seen but never worn. The mana sunk in, feeling less like cool silk and now more like the radiating warmth of the sun long after it had dipped below the horizon.

\--

Bare feet on cool, dew-coated grass, chill and sticky, running through the trees, dodging branches, chasing fennecs. Laughter like little bells, green stains on knees.

The trees looming and smoke from campfires filtering through the leaves, the light from stars peeking through the black blanket of the night. Her family, her friends, lying in the moon’s glow on piles of bear fur.

 _Lethallin, lethallin, lethallin, lethallin_ \---

Hands on carved wood, wood she had carved herself with her father’s hands over her own, now her mother’s, the string pulled taught. A satisfying smack of metal sinking into wood and a kiss from mamae, a reward. A silver, shining reward.

Her reflection. The curving golden lines of June, through her lip, snaking under her breasts, down her spine, curling up her thigh like a snake climbing a trunk.

And that smile. White, white teeth behind dusky pink lips, brown skin, a smattering of freckles. Her. A kiss. First kiss.

_Da’mi._ She said. First First First. 

Lavellan. Lavellan.

\---

“Lavellan?”

Her eyes shot open. He was looking at her. Concerned. She noticed how tightly she was holding his hand and she withdrew it quickly, pulling it into her lap, rubbing the pads of her fingers with her thumb. The feel of his mana on her skin, in her skin, withdrew as swiftly as her hand.

“Was the meditation successful?”

She blinked and smiled a little. “Yes, it worked. How long did that take?”

“A few minutes, I believe. Ten at most.” His back was still straight, tone still level. Her posture matched his, for once, and her eyes met his. She was familiar with his expression, the same way he looked at her this morning when trying to discover the source of her nightmares, one of interest. It was an expression she often wore herself when she tried to ferret out information from him, when she asked him about the Dalish while picking elfroot.

Her heart was racing, her chest buzzed. Was it from his touch, or from the images she had seen while meditating? Was she a puzzle to him, like he was for her? What was he thinking, what was he thinking, what was he thinking?

“And I just do the same thing each night before I sleep?”

“Yes. Focusing your thoughts, taking time to internalize the memories you wish to see as you dream, that should be enough to at least minimize the possibility of disturbing your rest.”

“I won’t need your magic any longer, then.”

“No, you should not have need of it.”

“Good.” 

They stood, neither of them brushing off the dirt from sitting on the ground. “Solas, I...” How could she tell him what his kindness meant without throwing off the thick curtain draped over her heart, without that lingering concern that his kindness was only a play at manipulation, an assumption she hated to have but knew was necessary in order to protect herself in this new world? He noticed her pain when no one else did. Not Varric, who she knew was too laden with betrayal and worry to give his friendship freely any longer. Not Cassandra, who felt the weight of Thedas on her shoulders. Not Leliana, who hardened her heart in the face of her own cruelty, the acts she was tired of justifying. Not even Josephine, who tried (bless her), but could not know exactly what to say. “Thank you, hahren.”

It would have to do.

“Sathem lasa halani, da'mi,” was his reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sathem lasa halani, da'mi - Pleased to help, little blade.


	5. flipped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group arrives back in Haven.

The four of them stood in front of the gates of Haven, their new home, their shelter, the sleepy village turned Inquisition headquarters that sat underneath a giant rip in the sky. The breach loomed closer and closer as they journeyed back from the Hinterlands. At a distance, it was easy to see the beauty in the emerald scar that tore open the heavens, easy to admire the way the red of the sinking sun danced along the edges of the rift while camping in the valleys of the Hinterlands. Here, in Haven, it only inspired fear. It laughed at them. They were impossibly small in its presence.

Quenyah broke her gaze from the sky and looked down at her hand, the mark crackling with energy from recent use. The connections, her role in the formation of the giant rift, were still lost along with her memories. She wondered briefly if there was someone out there who knew the truth and if she would live to remember it.

“Didn’t get any smaller while we were gone,” Varric said. All four looked away now, suddenly aware of the time they had spent captivated by its immensity.

“Let’s go.” Cassandra and Solas passed Lavellan while she hesitated, rubbing her thumb along the scar on her palm.

Varric touched her back. “Come on, elf.” She inhaled and followed the group, wiping her hand on her thigh as if the mark was just a particularly stubborn patch of dirt instead of a bit of fade-wrenching magic embedded into her skin.

It had been almost three weeks she had spent with the Inquisition, now, and she still felt uncomfortable in Haven. She felt disconnected and disoriented, her body and spirit shifting like a bone slipping from its socket. It was like something in her was pulling her back towards the Free Marches, to her clan and away from the Inquisition. Time had done nothing to quell that feeling.

As she approached Haven, Josephine fell into stride with her, carrying her notes on a board with her as she walked. “Welcome back, Herald.”

“Thank you, Ambassador.”

“You have had numerous requests for your presence since your meeting with Mother Giselle in the Hinterlands. I would advise you to address the Chantry in Val Royeaux first, and then accept Madame Vivienne’s invitation to her party. She is the Court Enchanter of Orlais and--”

“Yes, I trust your judgment. Please excuse me, Josephine, it has been a long journey and after dealing with Cassandra and Varric’s bickering for days on end, I’d dearly like to find a quiet cliff to scream off of for a few hours.”

Josephine paused.

“A joke. Sorry.”

“There is one more thing, Lady Lavellan.” Quenyah could not stop the corner of her mouth from twitching upwards. Lady sounded even more ridiculous than Herald. “The Spymaster would like to speak with you as soon as possible.” They had reached the entrance to the inner layer of Haven, where her cabin lay only a short distance away, the promise of solitude hovering just out of reach.

“Tell her the same thing I told you. I will meet with her later.”

“I’m afraid she won’t--”

The pair looked up, and a dark, hooded figure stood before them. Even Josephine seemed surprised at her friend’s sudden appearance. “Herald,” said the Spymaster.

“Leliana. It’s good to see you again.” It wasn’t, really. Leliana was frightening; she was a dimmed light, a faith twisted, a warning to those who cared too much and too deeply.

Beneath her hood, her red hair fell limp around her pale face, and her eyes looked birdlike even shrouded in shadow. “I’d like a word.”

“Perhaps later, Spymaster, after I’ve settled in?” It didn’t feel like a particularly unreasonable request, and she was truly craving the privacy of her cabin.

The Left Hand of the Divine gave a smile that was not at all friendly; it was wry, knowing. “Now would be better for me, _Harellan_.” The elvhen was not awkward on her lips, it sounded unpracticed and natural.

Quenyah’s chest immediately went cold. Colder than she had been in weeks, colder than she had been during her first blizzard in Haven, colder than she felt sitting in a dank cell under Cassandra’s gaze. She stepped closer to Leliana, and although she was dimly aware of a lingering audience that included both Varric and Solas, she felt the world shrink to only include her and the woman who stood in front of her. “What did you call me?”

Leliana was holding a rolled up piece of parchment in her hand, which she now handed over. Quenyah’s hands were stiff, fingers unwilling to unroll the paper for the latent knowledge of what would be on it. After some effort and fumbling, Quenyah held the unrolled parchment in her hand, and saw her own face staring back at her--the vallaslin was wrong, her chin a little too small, but it was her. It was her. Underneath the picture was 'HARELLAN' in large, black letters, and smaller text about a reward. 

Her hand closed into a fist over the parchment, crumpling it between her fingers. The first impulse was to rip it to pieces, but now her vision was coming into focus, her heart beating again, and she could feel the eyes on her. “Okay.” She breathed. “Let’s talk.”

Snow began to fall. It was a common occurrence in the Frostback Mountains, but the near constant flurries had abated for the last few days until now. Flakes landed on the Herald’s curls and collected along the eyelashes of the the Spymaster. Side by side, they walked together into the hall of Haven’s chantry.

 

* * *

 

_Harellan._

The word rang in his ears. The way Lavellan had reacted--her posture and movements usually so fluid became suddenly stiff, each muscle tensed. He had watched her before, seen her shift her stance depending on the audience, adapting to new situations as easily as water slipped through fingers. This was different. This was not calculated.

It was easy for him to admit that he was curious. Curious about what was on the paper and what Leliana was insinuating, but that was all. He had no interest in the Herald beyond curiosity.

Though he had been with the Inquisition from the first moment the breach opened, he was still not comfortable with any of the humans who made up the bulk of the organization’s ranks. It was a matter of both disinterest and a purposeful distance kept between himself and nearly everyone else. He spoke infrequently with Minaeve, the elven researcher, about Haven’s relatively small collection of books. She had advised him there was a small library in a room off of one of the labyrinthine halls that lay beneath the Chantry. It was not likely that any of the books contained any information concerning magic, let alone anything of interest, but it was better than nothing.

So it was with this in mind that he entered the Chantry after unpacking his things, and it was complete chance that he walked by the room in which the Herald and the Spymaster met, and it was unintentional that he paused for a moment to hear a few words pass through the thin wooden door.

They were disconnected but not useless. ‘Bounty’ ‘childish’ ‘ruin’ were all spoken with Leliana’s tense whispers.

It was difficult to avoid overhearing full sentences from Lavellan, her voice naturally projected and it was only amplified by the arched ceilings. “There are no loose ends. It was years ago.”

Commander Cullen shut the door to the War Room behind him with some force, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as he mumbled something under his breath. The candles in the hall flickered from the sudden force of air. The Commander noticed Solas standing in the hall and paused. “Solas,” he said, his hands falling to his side.

“Commander Cullen.”

“You’ve all returned then? The trip to the Hinterlands was successful?”

“Yes, I believe Dennet’s horses will be following our arrival in the next few days.”

Cullen ran his fingers through his hair, brushing the loose curls back from his face. “Good, good. Actually, I hoped to speak with you. Would you mind walking with me?”

Solas nodded and they walked out of the Chantry, Cullen sliding into his role as Commander of the Inquisition as guards acknowledged his exit. He clasped his hands behind his back. “We have not spoken much, but I know Cassandra regards your expertise in the Fade highly.”

“She shows her appreciation in a unique fashion, then.”

Cullen laughed and rubbed his palm on his neck. “She does not have the talent for compliments, no, but I do know the Seeker well enough to see when she approves of someone.” His boots fell heavy in the snow and a few flakes melted and pooled on the polished metal of his armor. Solas, still barefoot, dressed lightly and stepped lightly, his footsteps making little noise and creating shallow depressions in the snow that filled as quickly as they were created. The thuds of metal on wood, clanging metal against metal, and groaning soldiers signaled the pair’s proximity to the training grounds. “Tell me, Solas, what do you think of our odds? At sealing the breach?”

“I think the Inquisition, whatever their decision, needs to act quickly to have any chance at all.” They stood outside the gates of Haven, looking out over the grounds.

“Josephine has begun attempts at contacting the rebel mages.”

“You have misgivings, I take it?”

“I... am not a templar any more, but I fear...” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “I fear they are not the most reliable choice. I had a thought that, perhaps, the templars would work just as well. They could dampen the energy of the breach significantly, allowing the Herald to seal it by herself.”

Solas folded his arms across his chest, looking out over the Inquisition troops. “It is not impossible. Do you believe the templars to be a more reliable group than the mages, even after what you witnessed in Kirkwall, Commander?”

Though fleeting, Cullen’s wince was unmistakable. His brows furrowed, thumb tracing circles on the hilt of his sword. “I suppose it doesn’t matter, as neither group will speak with us. All of it is conjecture.”

They stood, silence passing between them. In the distance a flock of birds took off from the trees, stark black against the white of the falling snow. “What do you think of Lavellan? The Herald?”

Cullen shifted his weight and let out a little breath of air. “I’m not sure that any of us know what to make of her. She is cunning, to be sure, but her motives are unclear. Mother Giselle seemed quite taken with her, but the charm she employed with Giselle has never been displayed for us.” He looked at Solas. “It’s hard to imagine that she doesn’t know anything of life outside of the Dalish clans.”

“I find that hard to imagine, as well.” Her mistrust of all around her was not unusual for a Dalish elf, but her impressive and deadly skill with the blades she carried and her skill at manipulating the situation to her benefit did not match with what he knew of the isolated Dalish who so often had little contact with the outside world. “You know nothing of the Spymaster’s meeting with the Herald?”

Cullen shrugged in response, his armor shifting stiffly with his movements. “Leliana said she first wanted to speak with Lavellan personally.”

“Hm.” Solas was unsure if that reflected more on the content of the meeting or the Spymaster’s consideration of the Herald’s feelings. Either way, he was no less intrigued or more informed than he had been before. “I will look into that theory you mentioned, Commander.”

“Thank you, Solas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harellan - trickster, traitor, the dreaded


	6. out

The days began to pass quickly. Before she recognized it was happening, Quenyah had established routines and created constants to cling to. There was the traveling and fighting, to the Hinterlands and to Val Royeaux, there were sparring lessons with Blackwall and lunches with Josephine as she learned the rules of etiquette. There were conversations with Solas on the dock looking over the frozen lake at dusk, as she pieced together the bits of him that he shared. There were archery competitions with Sera (who always won) and there was avoiding Leliana, a game she played out of fear. The only disruption in all of this was Redcliffe, and she did not dwell on or speak of that. Vivienne’s red eyes and Cassandra’s prayers in the corner of her dank cell were images that she worked to repress, though thankfully after bringing the mages to join the Inquisition as partners Vivienne pointedly ignored her. 

And each night, there was the ache that she no longer sharpened, the ache that became dull and rusty but still ever present in the corners of her heart. She practiced the method that Solas had taught her and the nightmares no longer came. Her sleep had become mostly dreamless, and her longing to return to her clan in the Free Marches began to sink into he back of her mind.

That is, until a letter arrived for her.

“Herald?”

Quenyah’s head snapped up, suddenly brought out of her reverie. She had been staring at her fingers as she slowly curled them into a fist and then, one by one, stretched them out. “Yes?”

“Your turn.” Right. She was playing Wicked Grace with Dorian and Varric, who had offered to teach her in the tavern that evening. Maryden’s song drifted between the conversations of Inquisition soldiers and Haven’s villagers, though even she could not sing over the sound of Sera regaling a few scouts with tales of her exploits as Red Jenny. Fiona had claimed that morning that the mages would be prepared to seal the breach in two days time. The mood in Haven was cautiously optimistic, and the tavern was abuzz with it. She took a deep drink of the ale in front of her. 

Her thoughts were elsewhere. To be locationally precise, her thoughts lay with a letter that currently sat unfurled, weighed down by rocks she collected from the river, on the nightstand in her quarters, in the small house she had awoken in after attempting to seal the Breach the first time, the house that had come to be something like home.

It was ironic, then, that the letter which now sat inside of it was the thing to remind her that Haven was not home at all, that she was slipping, falling into old habits, leaving behind something she had previously fought so hard to regain.

The letter’s contents, scrawled in a perfect, curled handwriting, were now running through her head on loop.

It began,

> _Da’mi,_

(She gasped when she saw the handwriting, dropped the letter on the floor, paced the length of her room, picked the letter up again)

> It is hard for me to say that I hope this letter finds you well, because if you were not well then perhaps I would find it easier to convince you to come home. However, as hard as it is for me to say, it is much harder for me to wish you anything but well. So: I truly, desperately, inevitably hope this letter finds you well.

(A tear splattered on the page, spreading ink from the ‘ely’ in the word ‘desperately’ into the margins of the paper)

> Do you remember the first time I discovered my magic? We were children, you were a shock of red curls and dirty fingernails and grass stains and your mother was always chasing you with a wash cloth; I was thin and carried stacks of books with me and sat with the halla so much you called me “hallasyl,” an apt nickname if not a little harsh, but most importantly, I was sick more often than I was well. You know the cause, but I will reiterate it here so we can picture the full story together, you as you read the letter, me as I write it. The disease that killed my healthy parents somehow did not claim me, a child, but left me with a body that could no longer fight off illness. I was sick, again, confined to an aravel, huddled under blankets of bear skins with Clan Lavellan’s healer--a woman who somehow smelled worse than halla breath--

(a peal of laughter, smiling, eyes brimming with tears)

> as my only visitor. With the exception, of course, of you.
> 
> You brought me something each day I had to spend inside the aravel. On this day, it was a lizard that you had caught while collecting herbs with your father earlier that morning. “I stuck him in my shirt all day so that I could show you,” you told me, in the strictest confidence. I was nervous, but your fearlessness was a constant inspiration to me, and you successfully goaded me into holding the lizard in my palm. This was our first mistake. The little green thing must have sensed my nerves because he immediately bit my finger and drew blood, and I attempted to throw him off of me while screaming, and then you started screaming, and I panicked, and the lizard burst into magical flames. To its credit, it did let go of my finger once it was set on fire. The poor fellow scrambled around on the floor of the aravel in a sorry attempt at saving itself, and you prepared yourself to squash it with your foot. “Don’t hurt him!” I cried, a statement of such idiocy that it surely will go down in history. You did not squash the flaming lizard with your foot. This was our second mistake.
> 
> The lizard scurried up the wall of the aravel until it reached the cloth top and subsequently set it aflame. You grabbed me and we dashed out of the aravel together, breathing heavily and in a fit of laughter as we ran to find the Keeper. The clan lost an aravel that day and gained a First.
> 
> Allow me to recount a more somber story that I have never told you though you have a starring role in it, a story that I admit is hard for me to think on. The day that they found you half dead in the woods was four years, three weeks, and three days after the day that you had left us. Many times I tried to stop counting the days but apparently I am just as obsessive and meticulous in grief as I am in everything else. After they brought you back to camp, they put you in an aravel to heal like they had done to me when I was a child. You had many visitors at first, but after a week had passed only your mother stayed faithfully by your side. I refused to see you.
> 
> The first year you were gone was the most painful. I spent years two and three becoming a person who existed without you, a person who could even thrive without you, and in year four I watched your father die and swore to him that I would find you--but of course you found us instead.
> 
> When I did finally visit you it was in the middle of the night, when I knew your mother would not be there. When I walked into the aravel I felt relieved to find you asleep, a small mercy as I finally lived the scenario I thought of so many times in the last four years. It did not happen as I hoped it would. My first thought was: That isn’t her. If it weren’t for the elven ears, the vallaslin, and the hair, I would not have believed it. You looked so small in that bed, like someone had sucked all the soul out of you and left a husk. You were bruised all over and and your hair seemed dull and you had scars I had never seen before. You were even missing a part of your ear. The person who lay in front of me was a stranger, someone I did not know, someone who had lived a life I could not even picture.
> 
> I thought the hardest part was over when you returned to the clan. I did not expect that the hardest part would be to relearn you, to meet you all over again, this person who I had loved so much I once considered them as much a part of me as my own heart.

(She had set the letter down again, sat in front of the fireplace, made and drank a cup of tea, inhaled deeply, then picked the letter up again)

> Last night I held your mother as she cried. This morning I sat down to write this letter, and this afternoon I finally worked up the courage to begin writing it. To inspire bravery in myself I thought of your vallaslin ceremony. Yanna asked you if you needed a break before he began tattooing your face, and you yelled, “By the Void, get on with it, old man!”
> 
> It did not shock me when the shemlen from Wycome who came to trade told me that the Herald of Andraste was a red haired, gold tattooed elf missing a chunk of her ear (though I was thrown off by the bit where you’ve been going around kissing babies--is this true?), in fact it was almost comforting. I always knew that you would try to save the world, but I naively hoped I would be at your side when it happened.
> 
> Quenyah, please come home. I am scared that I don’t have the strength to meet you as a stranger once again. I am scared that I am unlearning you minute by minute, that between the time I write this letter and the time you receive it you will already have destroyed and rebuilt yourself ten times over.
> 
> Come home. Please.
> 
>       Yours,  
>          Sylen  
>          First of Clan Lavellan

These were the words that now consumed her, setting a panic in her chest that she had fought to quell all day. It was the reason she had made her way to the tavern that evening seeking out alcohol and distractions, or alcoholic distractions. Quenyah bit her lip and exhaled, trying to exhale the nerves that flooded her system. She picked up a card as she discarded another one. “So if I have two little men with knives that’s...”

“That’s a good thing,” Varric laughed.

“Though announcing your hand to the table is quite often believed to be a bad thing,” Dorian said. She liked Dorian. Even in their short time together, they had already built up a rapport that centered around one trying to outwit and outcharm the other, and Quenyah was delighted to find someone who could (or was even interested in) keeping up with her.

Quenyah brought one foot up to her seat and pulled her knee against her chest. “These men don’t look like they even know how to hold a pair of daggers. You know what these cards need? A deadly Dalish beauty. Perhaps one with red hair, golden tattoos, and a look in her eyes that says she could kill you with her pinkie finger.”

Varric grunted. “Don’t think I’ve met anyone like that. Have you, Sparkler?”

“The only Dalish elf I know plays a very terrible game of Wicked Grace and is constantly being overshadowed by her handsome Tevene companion.” Dorian took a sip of ale out of his clay cup and winced in disapproval, shaming the drink for its inadequacies.

Quenyah cocked her head, studying him. “Is that true?”

“That I’m handsome? Yes.”

“That I’m the only Dalish elf you’ve ever met?”

“Well, yes. I don’t believe any Dalish clan travels that far north, for... obvious reasons.”

She blinked and returned her gaze to the cards in front of her, falling silent as she pressed her chin against her knee. She placed another card on the table and withdrew a new one. Sera’s story, one she had told Quenyah only a week ago about a noble she had tricked into believing he was being haunted by the ghost of his mother in law, had reached its climax and there was a peel of laughter through the tavern. Blackwall’s gruff, deep laugh was still clear even among the ruckus. Quenyah took a drink from her cup and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“So, do you own slaves, Pavus?”

He looked startled by her question, the corners of his mouth turned down and eyebrows pulled together. “Not personally, no, but my family does.”

“Well, do you _personally_ find anything wrong with the slave trade?” She said, tasting the venom in her words. There was a tension in her chest, a tangle of heat beneath her bones. She kept her eyes on the cards in front of her but could hear Varric shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“I suppose I’ve never really questioned it until I saw how different it was here. In the south, you have alienages. Slums, both human and elven. The desperate have no way out, while back home, a poor man can sell himself and have a position of respect and comfort.”

“In exchange for his freedom.” She was staring at him now.

“Do you think the elves in the alienages _choose_ to live in inescapable poverty?”

“Oh, come off it, Dorian. People are suffering in your own country and your response is, essentially, ‘someone else has it worse.’ You don’t care about the elves in the alienages any more than you do the slaves--you’re just using them to make yourself feel better. It is great to know that one of my companions believes my people can be bought and sold like property.” Quenyah broke away from his gaze and dug her nails into her palm, attempting and failing to untangle that tension that lingered in her body. The mark reacted to the pressure, green sparks snapping at her fingers. She pushed her chair out and lay her cards on table as she stood, taking one final deep drink of ale. “Sorry. I think I’ve just ruined the mood.”

Dorian rubbed his temple with his thumb. “Lavellan, wait, I--”

“It’s fine. I should sleep, anyway.” Quenyah could hear, dimly, Varric admonishing Dorian as she left, using ‘Sparkler’ like it was a curse instead of a fond nickname.

Lavellan exited the tavern from the back, too deep in her thoughts to even appreciate the way the light from the breach and the moon spun together over the snow, glowing and sparkling different shades of blue-green. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it, her breaths shallow and quick as she cradled her head in her hands. It was almost unbelievable that even humans she believed she could trust, _befriend_ , were so insensitive to the oppression that surrounded them. Was she an exception for them? Did they even see her as elven? How could they look through her vallaslin like it was not an open declaration of her pride and love for her people? How could they pretend to not see it? She looked up, staring at the breach, her eyes wide.

A figure came into focus. “Lavellan? Are you alright?” It was Solas, walking back from the Chantry hall and holding a book under his arm.

She straightened up and felt her face warm. He had an unbearable knack for catching her at her least composed. “No. Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

His face was lit by the warm light from the tavern window. “Are you sure? Did something happen?”

She wanted to say _yes_ , and to tell him everything, what had happened with Dorian, how much she needed to return to her clan, how wrong everything had gone since the Conclave. She wanted to tell him what she saw in those dreams he helped her stop, about the conversation she had with Leliana. She wanted him to wrap his arms around her while she lay her head against his chest. Quenyah looked into his grey eyes and recalled an echo of his voice.

_They are children acting out stories misheard and repeated wrongly a thousand times._

She stood straighter and managed a small, lopsided smile, though inside she felt something wrench as she internalized her isolation and distance. “Nothing happened. Just... tired.”

His expression told her he didn’t believe it, but would not press the issue. “If you are certain, then--”

“I’m certain.” She lingered a moment to look at him, to calm the waves that crashed against her ribcage. He opened his mouth with a small inhale, as if he wanted to say more, but then shut it. Wind whipped through the village and whistled as it pushed itself through narrow passages. “On nydha, Solas.” Tearing herself away, she folded her arms across her chest and walked into the wind, away from the tavern and towards her cabin.

\---

When Quenyah arrived, an elven servant was in her room to make the fire in her hearth. She was the same woman who was there when she awoke after sealing the first rift, after fighting Pride, the one who had been so frightened of her. “Your Worship,” she said as Quenyah entered.

Lavellan sat on her bed, watching as the woman stoked the flames and carefully added another log to the pile. “I can finish that.” The woman nodded and made one last adjustment to the fire’s structure before moving to leave. “Actually,” Quenyah said, “do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“I don’t mind, Your Worship.”

It was useless to try and dissuade everyone from using that honorific, especially when she was sure both Josephine and Leliana were encouraging it. “Where are you from, originally? An alienage?”

“No, Your Worship. I grew up in Haven, same as most of the villagers here.”

“Ah, I see. That’s all. You can go.”

The elven servant left. Quenyah spent a few minutes sitting on her bed and staring at the fire before she began to gather her things. She threw on a cloak and grabbed a small sack to fill with a extra pieces of clothing and a bag of coins, and then left through her back window. She climbed up the stacked wooden crates against the wall of the outer edge of Haven, and dropped down on the other side, the snow cushioning her fall.

She swallowed and pressed her body against the wall in an attempt to mitigate her size and avoid the light from the watchtower's fire, and then walked into the wilderness surrounding Haven once she was sure she was out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On nydha - Good night  
> Hallasyl - halla-breath


	7. back

Solas walked into one of the rooms in the tavern, the one the barmaid had suggested his friend was in after he inquired about an elf and made quick gestures signifying the tattoos on her face. He had knocked first, but had expected no answer. He had expected an empty room, an open window, an indication of flight. He did not expect the knife at his back.

“Solas?”

Yet, he probably should have expected it. The knife dug in a little more as he took time to respond. “Lavellan.”

The knife pulled back some, but the sharp edge still threatened him even through his layers of clothes. “Fenedhis.” The curse came out like a hiss. The window was open, the thin, moth-eaten drapes fluttered in the breeze that floated through the room and out the door. “I expected one of the Nightingale’s birds.”

“I am certain they will follow.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To speak with you.”

She hesitated for a moment, contemplating. Weighing options. Then the knife drew completely away from his back and she shut the door. She stepped around him and moved into the square of moonlight that fell through the window. It lay across her face, illuminated her features. The color of her skin, usually a warm, reddish tan, now was distinctly sallow and pale, the skin around her eyes the color of blooming violets in a field of snow. Only her vallaslin remained its regular tone, only now even more vivid against pallid skin.

Solas felt uncomfortable looking at her and turned his gaze somewhere else. By the bed stood a nightstand with a scrap of rolled paper on it, recently and clumsily sealed. The candle on the stand was still hot, the wax still melted around the wick. “I was writing a letter to my clan. To tell them I am coming home,” she explained, following his gaze.

“Is that your plan, then? To leave the Inquisition, forsake your duty entirely? I had hoped that you had a good reason to leave Haven, but now I see it was merely a bout of childish homesickness that drove you to such a reckless decision.”

He was looking at her now and she returned his gaze. The parental admonishment did not shame her; instead, she looked at him now with more life and anger than he had seen her express since the first days of the Inquisition. “That was always the plan, Solas. From the very first day, that was the plan.” She had not put away the knife that was at his back moments before and her hand now gripped it tightly, her knuckles going white. “I know what you think of me, of the Dalish, but I am no fool. I know sealing the Breach will not be the end of things.”

“What do you believe I think of the Dalish?”

“You think we are misguided.”

“What do you believe I think of you?”

Her face softened an incremental amount. Quenyah considered him, eyes drifting to the mark above his eyebrow. She was silent for too long, took too long to come up with an answer, the natural pace of their conversation was disrupted and allowed to breathe. “I... I am trying to figure that out.”

His expression was practiced and steady. Her expression changed moment to moment, each slight shift in emotion a tick in a different place. She didn’t know what he was thinking, ever; she hated that she didn’t know what he was thinking while her thoughts were spelled out in the movement of her muscles.

Solas briefly broke from her gaze and glanced at the wooden floorboards. “As am I.”

Quenyah loosened her grip on the knife and stepped towards him until she was intimately close, pressing up against the boundaries he set with his grim stare and calculated language. “Come with me.” She looked up at him. “I know you don’t want to leave a problem unsolved--” She lifted her hand, reached towards his jawline. His hand snapped up and gripped her wrist with force, keeping her fingertips from his skin.

“Inquisitor. You have misread me.”

“I don’t believe that I have.”

“You continue to behave like a child. I will admit to not understanding you, I will admit to seeing moments of great potential in you, but the moments where I have seen you to be rash, overconfident, lacking nuance and wisdom in your actions quickly dim those faint sparks of promise.”

“Ar ame mis, hahren. Mis daral, din ha.” _I am a blade, hahren. Blades are sharp, not wise._

“Mis hima ha’el hima elvyr’el, da’len?” _Blades grow dull as they grow wise, da’len?_

“In your case, yes.” They noticed at the same moment that his hand was still wrapped around her wrist. The mark sparked, spilling green light over their skin. Her heart was racing; she wondered if he could feel the pulse in her veins. Solas loosened his grip and she pulled her arm back to her side.

“There is still more to do in Haven.”

In more than one way, he was right.

"Have I wasted my time in coming here?"

She rubbed her wrist and stepped back from him. “Not entirely. I’ve decided to go back to Haven. You’ve convinced me.” The cold air from the window had filled the room, pulling blood to the two elves’ cheeks and biting their exposed skin. Perhaps the fire had finally died in the main room. “I am going to show you, and all of Thedas, what a rash, overconfident Dalish elf can do.”

He remained unshaken, stoic. Her theatrics did not phase him. “Return ahead of me. I’ll inform the Nightingale that I never saw you, and you can spin some tale about needing a walk.”


	8. cold

And then it happened, and she was on the edge of death, but she didn’t die, and everything green shattered, and she confronted a god, but she didn’t die. Then she walked, she walked for so long in the snow and bitter wind and wondered whether or not this was life beyond death, but only briefly because she needed to keep walking. Haven fell. She didn’t fall, but she almost did. There was so much snow, and it kept stinging her face, a thousand little wasps pricking her exposed skin.

It was hard to imagine that she could keep going, keep walking, but she kept walking because she had convinced herself that there was something to walk towards. It was a simple goal (walking) but a painful path. She kept thinking of a soup that one of the clan’s elders made each winter. He would put an impossible amount of strange nuts and meats and vegetables found in the forest into the biggest pot of boiling broth, and the entire clan would huddle around the fire while it boiled, pulling in the warmth escaping from the stew and tucking it under animal skins. She thought about what it tasted like, but couldn’t remember. She couldn’t remember the heat, either, but she knew that heat existed. The soup proved it. Heat existed, and it could exist again.

She saw the blurry outlines of a woman in armor and then she did collapse but she didn’t fail. She hadn’t failed. They hadn’t failed.

\----------

It was two nights later that she found herself awake after a couple hours of fitful sleep. She was so cold. She had been so cold since Haven; she couldn’t get warm, couldn’t keep warmth inside her. Quenyah wrapped her blankets around her and slipped her feet into the fur-lined boots that were now the only shoes she had and headed outside of her tent, towards the large bonfire the camp had set that night. The soldiers on watch glanced in her direction and then continued their vigil around the camp’s perimeter.

Solas was at the fire, of course. Dorian, too. An unlikely pair.

The Tevinter looked up at Lavellan as she stumbled through the dense, thick snow. They hadn’t spoken since the night in the tavern in Haven. She forgave him, but didn’t have the energy to make it verbal, and truthfully she was worried that he might not forgive her back. Dorian broke eye contact with her quickly and pulled the blankets he had around him tighter. “Well, nice chatting with you, Solas, but I’d better be turning in. Let me know when you’re ready for my advice on your... attire.”

She thought of saying something. She could say something like, ‘ _no need to rush off_ ,’ or anything that would let Dorian know she didn’t care, that she wanted to put it behind them. Her lips wouldn’t form the words, and she let him go, let him think she was still angry. There wasn’t enough feeling left in her to care.

That left two of them at the fire, standing near each other, comfortably close. They did not speak. The silence was not awkward; it was warm, even, and she felt some feeling return to her fingers. The solid wall of cold still remained impenetrable inside her chest.

It must have been at least ten minutes before Quenyah spoke. She did not look away from the billowing flames of the fire. “Did you believe I would make it out of Haven?”

Solas did not respond immediately, nor made any indication that he had heard her, at first. “I had to believe that you would.”

Something stirred within her. “Ah, so you don’t wish me dead?”

“No, of course I--”

“Only joking, Solas. Not a good joke, but I have just survived certain death and I think I deserve a grace period before I'm returned to full charm.” 

“We all hoped for your survival. Still, I think you surprised and impressed all of us when you returned from Haven.”

They stayed quiet for an indefinite amount of time. The fire was hypnotic.

Whatever it meant to be the Herald of Andraste before Corypheus, it no longer meant that now. It was hard to parse what her feelings were on the subject. It was hard to parse what any of it meant, what it could mean, where the future was headed. So much was balanced on a blade’s edge--on _her_ blade’s edge.

As Herald, she was a symbol of hope for lost people who had nothing to cling to, people who were terrified by the rip in the sky and were looking for purchase on a slick, smooth wall. A symbol from a higher power was exactly what they needed and she had fulfilled this role dutifully and with aplomb. Being that kind of symbol gave her enormous power, power that she had never taken lightly (and how could she?), power that she had always sought.

But what was any of that in the face of a being like Corypheus? Quenyah pulled her blanket closer to her chest as she remembered dangling in his hand, forced to confront the full dimensional reality of her helplessness.

Corypheus moved and the air moved with him. Quenyah was not a spiritually sensitive person, but even she could feel the pulsing in the air as he stalked towards Haven, the kind of power that he wielded bent the Fade around him for miles. What was her power to his? She could kiss a baby and reassure a mother while he could destroy an army with a thought. The two were not comparable.

Something would change. It was possible that everything would change.

If Corypheus had not chosen that moment to arrive in Haven, it was likely that Quenyah would have returned to the Free Marches, forgotten the Inquisition, began working with Sylen to unite the Dalish with the rebel mages--anything to get away from an organization she had come to believe was a distraction. A decision like that now seemed beyond irresponsible. The Inquisition had become united in their mutual and unique comprehension of the state of Thedas. They had looked at the mutated, distorted face of Corypheus and became a family in their horror.

Solas spoke. “You will have the opportunity to become an important player in this game in the coming weeks. I wonder, what do you intend to do with that influence?”

It took her a moment to disengage from the depths of her mind before she could respond. “Are you reading my thoughts now as well as my dreams, Solas?”

“It was not hard to guess. Few of us can think of anything else.”

Quenyah sighed into her blanket and watched the shifting flames for a moment before replying. “I will unite Thedas. I will stop Corypheus.” A log in the fire fell, snapping in half, changing the tone of the fire’s symphony.

Solas folded his arms across his chest. “Ah, is that all?”

Quenyah looked at him and he smiled as if in confirmation that it was, indeed, a joke. “They will make me the Inquisitor when we reach Skyhold.”

“You are likely correct.”

“I am going to do something good with that title.” Heat finally began to hold inside her blanket, warming skin that had been cold for days. Quenyah dimly wished the fire would die down so she could see the stars a little better. “Are you going to stay when we reach Skyhold, Solas?”

He nodded. “For now. I will see this through.”

She always knew he intended to leave, but she had naively hoped that something had changed for him. Against all her instincts she had come to rely on him to be there, even with the knowledge that his presence in her life would be temporary. “I hope so.” It was hard to imagine what their lives would look like a week from now, let alone what the future held for them when they finished with Corypheus-- _if_ they finished with Corypheus. “Solas... I have come to consider you a friend. _Ane ma’falon_.” Quenyah cleared her throat. “Having you here has been... good.” Easily expressing affection in words was not a skill she possessed.

The corner of his mouth turned up in a half-smile. “I consider you my friend as well.” He stepped back from the fire in preparation of returning to his tent. “Get some sleep, Inquisitor, you have a long day ahead of you,” Solas said, touching her on the shoulder as he passed her.

Quenyah exhaled and dug her face into her blanket, trying to hide the blush that warmed her cheeks.

 


	9. warm

Quenyah walked in and out of the heavy moods that lay thick in the air of Skyhold’s grounds. Grief, loss, mourning hung like Haven’s fallen shadow over the courtyard, where some Chantry sisters prayed over another soldier who had not lasted the night, and others tended to the wounded. Walking up the front steps and into the main hall, the mood changed as she picked up pieces of an argument between dwarven workers on top of scaffolds making decisions about the position of drapes and passed Cullen handing out orders to his captains at a table near the fireplace. Skyhold was both the rain cloud and the sun behind it; the losses at Haven were made slightly less difficult to bear once the Inquisition began to consider how much solace there was in survival. Hurt, but not beaten.

“Inquisitor?”

Quenyah slipped through the main hall with the intention of going unnoticed. She could hear the echo of Vivienne on her balcony snapping at one of the workers when they were not quite careful enough with her paintings.

“Inquisitor!”

Oh. Right. Inquisitor meant her, now. So many changes to get used to. “Yes?” A young elf she recognized as one of the scouts held two square bits of fabric out to her.

“Josephine would like to know which you like best. It’s for the bed sheets in your quarters,” the scout said. “She is ordering them from Orlais.”

“From Orlais? Is that really necessary? Never mind. That one.”

The first week she had climbed many staircases, hoping they were the right one, and ended up in the entirely wrong section of the castle. One night she had run up a set of stairs she could have sworn were the ones that led into her quarters and instead had found herself amidst a very drunken and apparently well progressed card game that resulted in two soldiers in their underthings and one of Leliana’s spies wearing several layers of (bet and lost) clothes. It had been another week of trials and failures since then and the amount of times she chose the wrong set of stairs had been significantly diminished, so it was with a certain amount of surety that Quenyah dashed up the stairs that led into the rotunda’s library.

Her arrival in the library turned heads. As Herald, the stares were often curious, sometimes even distrustful, always marginalizing. Not much had changed as Inquisitor, though their eyes felt weightier and she felt the accumulation of her legend in each pair. She had managed to defy death twice now. Once was a curiosity, twice was miraculous.

She set her sights on Dorian, thankful that he had tucked himself away in a corner, behind a bookshelf. They still had not spoke much at all since Haven, and it was far past time that she had rectified this. “Hi,” she said, wincing, bracing herself for the discomfort of breaching their silence.

Dorian had sunk into an armchair near the window, catching the sunlight on the rather large monograph he had selected from Skyhold’s slim selection. Dorian was almost unbearably handsome and charming--certainly at least as charming as Quenyah, and more attractive by a large margin. It must have been difficult for him to forsake his home, everything familiar and comfortable, in order to to do the Right Thing for a group of people who would resent him for his country of origin; and in many ways, the Inquisitor and Dorian were kindred spirits. Quenyah would need close, trustworthy friends if she was to survive as Inquisitor for much longer.

He finally noticed that he was being watched and he looked up at Quenyah, and opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, closed his mouth, opened it again.

The elf spoke before he did. “Sera gave me a mysterious bottle of liquor and I thought you might like to try it.”

“So early in the afternoon? My favorite time to begin drinking.”

Quenyah grinned and took the flask from her pocket, taking the first swig before handing it to him. She managed to hide her grimace with only marginal success, but the warmth that followed was pleasant enough.

“Well? What is your assessment of Sera’s mystery drink?”

“Oh, it’s practically alcoholic piss.” Dorian shrugged and took a sip from the flask as Quenyah took a seat opposite of him, bringing her legs up into the chair and only briefly stealing a look outside the window before returning her attention to him. “I’ll get straight to the point. This was actually all a clever ruse wherein you and I drink alcohol together and that makes it easier for us to apologize and move on.” She took back the flask and pocketed it. “And that was my apology, in case you missed it, so now it’s your turn.”

“Did you need to put away the flask so quickly? Had I known this was part of the bargain, I would have taken a deeper drink.” Dorian closed the book on his lap and set it on the wooden table next to his chair.

Quenyah leaned forward. “We can return to drinking once we get this nasty business of apologizing out of the way. I’ll try again: I am sincerely sorry for being an ass.”

“And I am genuinely sorry for being an ignorant ass.” The pair grinned at each other and Quenyah handed him back the drink, though Dorian held up his hand in polite refusal. “All of these sincere and genuine emotions are almost as good at numbing pain as that swill.” 

“So, what have you been filling your time with in Skyhold?”

“I have already read all of the books that we managed to take from Haven. Now I mostly make unwelcome suggestions on which books the library should acquire and harass your researchers.”

“We are so lucky to have you, Dorian.”

“And you, Inquisitor.” His tone did not match her’s in sarcasm. In fact, it was said with more sincerity than anything they had said previously. Quenyah gave a small smile and shifted in her seat.

She looked up into the beams of sunlight that slipped through the window, idly watching the particles of dust swirl around lazily. She stood and moved towards the railing of the rotunda, leaning over it. Solas sat on the floor below them, holding a paintbrush in one hand and a pallet in the other; his focus on the corner he now worked on fixed. Dorian joined her at the railing, his elbow touching hers. The warmth from the drink still lingered in her chest.

“I didn’t know he was a painter.”

“Neither did I.” She studied his movements. He sat cross legged, his back straight, the jaw bone on his chest laying perfectly flat. Quenyah rest her chin on her forearm. They were silent for a few moments. “What were you two talking about, that night you were at the fire? After Haven?” ‘After Haven,’ a new marker of time.

“Why, the only thing anyone can talk about these days. You.”

“Oh.”

“What do you make of our hedge mage companion?”

Quenyah considered the question, rubbing her thumb against the rough material of the shirt that covered her forearm. She reached up and touched the scarred bit of her ear and rifled through memories of him: his help controlling her dreams in the Hinterlands, his fortunate appearance when she tried to escape Haven, the night she saw him by the fire. She had many scattered puzzle pieces, but none of them fit together. “I don’t know. He’s unusual.”

Dorian made a noise of agreement and tapped the banister with his fingernails. “I think so too, but we may be the only ones to have noticed. His humble apparel is a clever ruse, but his manners, tone of voice, expansive knowledge and talent--none of it matches.”

That was all true. “No one looks twice at a bare-faced elf.” Solas had long eyelashes. She remembered from the time she held a knife to his back in the inn outside of Haven.

“If I didn’t know you to be a tough-skinned scoundrel who had no need of love, I’d say you had a crush.”

“I do not!” She spoke louder than intended, and her voice echoed against the curved walls of the rotunda. Solas looked up from his painting and she quickly backed up from the railing and nearly into a human soldier passing through the library. Her skin felt hot. She swatted at Dorian as he laughed. “You _are_ an ignorant ass!”


	10. a matter of debate

“I’d like to know more of you,” she said.

“You continue to surprise me.”

[ _I love it when I say something that pleases him. I almost never mean to and it is always a surprise, golden, shining, I hope I make him laugh_ ]

They were in Haven. It would always be familiar to her; it may always be the time she was happiest in the Inquisition. Pre-Corypheus, pre-Inquisitor, pre-complications: her whole world was an unwritten book and all of it was new. 

Fractures of memories came like quick, fleeting flashes of light. They seemed to last only a moment but she could understand the full story of each of them. Scenes lay on top of each other and she reached into them, like water in a pond. Some thoughts and memories were her own, and some were not, but they pooled together and formed one whole.

Solas and Quenyah stood in front of the cell in which she first awoke and Solas explained how he had watched over her, distrustful, hopeless, trying everything he could think of to save her. She first saw herself as he had seen her: in restless sleep, covered in sweat, hand shackled to the cold floor in case of his unlikely success. Her hair was matted and stuck to her skin with sweat. She was nearly faceless in his memory, the particulars of her likeness slightly blurry; the Anchor was sharp, crackling, threatening to devour her. He barely saw her, barely looked at her. It was the mark that he remembered. He sat beside her, her body on the floor, her hand in his lap.

“Cassandra threatened to have me executed if I could not produce results.” The pressure of the situation seemed to reverberate from the scene they watched play out in the cell in front of them, like urgent shockwaves.

“Cassandra is like that with everyone.”

“Yes.” He laughed and it sparkled, she wanted to keep his laugh in her pocket, save it, hold it. 

Nearly simultaneously she saw the cell as she had first seen it: kneeling on the floor, shackled still, bewildered, the subject of accusation and mistrust, memories gone. Cold. She felt like a dog given a command she could not quite understand, pushed to complete a task beyond her while under threat of serious punishment. New information assaulted her, none of it truly sinking in, all of it too much. Her hands went to her side, looking for a blade, hoping she could sharpen her edge. The cell smelled dank, like wet moss and earth, and the stone was cold, taking what little heat her body could produce. 

She shook the memory and wondered if he had seen it, too. They left the cell and moved outside, skipping over all the bits in between. Wind and snow whipped around the village of Haven, everything touched with a subtle green glow from the enormous, monstrous, spectacular rip in the sky.

Solas stretched out his arm in front of them, gesturing to the Breach's massive expanse. “I watched the rifts change and grow, resigned myself to flee, and then...” He waved his arm and the scene changed. 

She watched their memories play at once from both of their perspectives. It was a scene she had seen in her dreams many times. His hand on her wrist, the Anchor snapping and pulling on the rift in front of them, threading it together until it disappeared entirely. The severed connection sent a pulse back into her palm and it startled them both. He lowered her hand: they stared at each other. She saw her own face and his at once, clearly. The way that he looked at her had changed, she was sharper, in focus, everything was in focus, reality had shifted into place--

[ _I felt the whole world change_.]

“I felt the whole world change.”

“I am interested in your use of the word ‘felt.’”

“You change... everything.” The colors in the whole world were suddenly more vibrant. 

She could not stop herself, she looked at him and saw him, saw the scar above his eyebrow, cloudy eyes. She wanted to be close to him, be a part of him. She smiled and then _kissed him_ , her hand naturally cupping the back of his neck. 

[ _No, no, no, no, wait, he doesn't--_ ]

She stopped and turned away and he grinned, he looked so _happy_ , she had never seen him so happy. He pulled her back, one hand around her waist and the other cupping her chin, tilting her head towards his. They kissed again. [ _!_ ] For a second they paused, considered, then came together again, and then his tongue was in her mouth and lips against her's, needy, affectionate, lovely. Colors exploded around them, and they became the center of a bright light as Haven faded to shades of grey. The green light of the Breach painted watercolors on their skin. He pressed her to him, hand on the small of her back. He lightly bit her lower lip then pulled himself away with some finality, his expression now changed. The light dimmed, Haven colored again. He was different and some how she could read him better, see the subtleties of his feelings as they played across his features, and now they read regret.

“This isn’t right. Not even here.”

[ _Here? Where...? Oh._ ]

The Fade. “This isn’t real.” She could feel the mark on her palm begin to heat, could feel it start to shift. The snow seemed to stutter as it fell and she no longer felt so cold.

“That is a matter of debate, probably best discussed when you... _wake up_.”

But she didn’t. "Solas!" Her palm split open and tendrils of green energy snapped from her hand, pain shot up her arm and she fell to the ground, kneeling in the snow, gripping her forearm. "Solas, make it stop--"

Haven began to fall to pieces, Solas called out to her--


	11. lost

Quenyah studied her reflection in a mossy pond, turning her head slowly to take account of all the bits and pieces that made up her face. Intrepid light found its way through the thick mass of leaves and branches above and now dappled her cheeks and sparkled on the layer of sweat that covered her skin. She rubbed at a bit of dirt smeared across her jawline, dabbing at it with water before giving up. The dirt lessened in density but in turn increased in size, now covering the whole of her left cheek. “What was it that we were looking for, again?” The elf gathered loose, frizzy curls that had wiggled their way to freedom from the haphazard bun she had fashioned earlier that morning and smoothed them behind her pointed ears. “I mean, how will we know when we get there? And how much longer?”

The question was posed to a taller elf only a few meters away, who was currently studying a decaying, tattered map that she had unrolled and pinned to the forest floor with a few small rocks. She raised a hand as if to say ‘wait,’ then mumbled something in return, though Quenyah guessed it would be rather incoherent even if she were close enough to hear her words. The map-studying elf was using her non-occupied hand to trace lines on the map and wiggle around an old compass.

[ _A human came to trade with our clan. He brought the children sweetcakes from town and we stole his old compass, smudged copper and cracked glass but not broken_ ]

“Sylen?”  
  
“She can’t hear you. She’s in First mode,” a third elf replied. He was perched atop a boulder in the sun. [ _Felas, brother. Hunter, too. Trained together, killed our first bear together._ ]

“This has already taken much longer than she promised,” she said, looking up at the small patches of sky in between the trees. “This place makes me feel uneasy, and it will be dark soon.”

“That is why we must hurry.” Sylen’s voice. The First approached her while sticking the folded map back into the pack slung across her shoulders.

“That’s what I was trying to t--”

Sylen reached up and wiped the dirt from Quenyah’s cheek with much more success than Quenyah had, quickly removing any evidence it had been there at all. “Come on, enough dawdling.” She met her eyes and gave her a small smile--an olive branch.

Quenyah’s face felt hot. “You’re infuriating.”

“As are you. Felas, ready?”

The elf climbed down from the boulder and grabbed the quiver and bow that sat at its base. “Ready.”

Sylen removed the scarf tied around her waist and wrapped it instead around her head, taming her cloud of black hair and pulling it away from her face as she retied it by her neck. Quenyah noted the way the deep red of the scarf complimented the warm undertones of Sylen’s brown skin. She cleared her throat and turned away from her. “Lead the way, First Sylen.”

[ _We had kissed for the first time only yesterday, behind my family’s aravel. Sylen didn’t have a family. First crush, first love, first kiss, first first First, Sylen smelled like flowery earth and campfire_ ]

They did not have any path to follow, instead they were forced to slowly carve their own way through the forest undergrowth. Sylen carried her staff in her hand as a precaution, but the group had not had cause to use weapons yet. “It really shouldn’t be much farther. I am not sure why the Keeper insisted you two accompany me, as the cave is less than a day’s journey from camp. I could have easily done it myself.”

“It’s because you’re built like a stick,” Quenyah said. “Felas and I--” She examined the boy next to her, “--OK, not Felas. I am built like a tree. Furthermore, you are easily breakable, I am good at breaking things. Additionally, I am very skilled at killing animals and things. Threats and what-have-yous. And in conclusion, you need me.” Quenyah folded her arms behind her head in a dramatic expression of self-confidence and ease. “Not sure why Felas is here, though.”

“I happen to be incredibly tree-like!” Felas said, affronted by the accusation.

Sylen was unwilling to be drawn into the conversation, focusing her attention on pulling back errant branches and not tripping on roots. “If all goes well, there will be no need to break anything.”

“I wouldn’t mind if there was a small amount of breaking involved, personally. I would like to use these daggers. Maybe I could break a vase when we get there?” Quenyah leapt on top of a particularly large, mossy fallen log, then held out her hand to help pull Sylen up.

“No.” Sylen took Quenyah’s hand and then dropped down on the other side of the tree, pausing to consider her surroundings before choosing a direction.

Quenyah then held out a hand to Felas and pulled him over before coming down. “A very small vase, then. An unimportant and especially small vase.”

“I would also like to break a vase,” Felas added.

“I think we’re here.” Sylen said, ignoring the two young hunters. She moved slowly towards a statue of a large halla sitting in a clearing, bathed in radiant, evening sunlight. Behind the statue, tucked into the middle of two massive boulders, was a dark crevice wide enough for a slim person to pass through. Sylen paused to gently touch the tips of a glowing deep mushroom that had grown in the shadows of the halla’s stone, then looked up into the sun and closed her eyes. The light played across her skin, deepening the black lines of her vallaslin and the smattering of freckles along her cheeks. She turned around and motioned at Quenyah and Felas to follow her. “Let’s go.” The hunters had been watching her from the shadows provided by the trees. Sylen took out a torch from her pack and lit it with a wave of her hand.

[ _There is a shadow in my peripheral vision. It’s huge. Massive. Like a wolf, but bigger. Every time I look it disappears, quick, gone, gone, here, there, nowhere_ ]

In order to enter the cave, the three elves filed into a line and passed through the narrow crevice one by one. Soon the noises from the forest were muffled and they moved in silence now, either out of respect for whatever elven history the ancient cavern held or because their nerves had finally dampened their voices. Quenyah ran her hand along the slick, moss-covered walls, collecting dirt on her fingertips and finding her bearings in the tight space. The fire from Sylen’s torch dimly illuminated the walls and reflected against the slick surfaces, providing little warmth. Sylen’s bare feet slipped a little as the cave’s floor angled down and Quenyah grabbed her hand for support. They offered each other a small smile, a ‘thank you’ and a reassurance.

After some time, they finally reached the end of the tunnel. They moved further in but stayed close to the walls, which were covered in an intricate pattern of small, golden tiles, until they found a brazier to light. Sylen moved along the wall and lit torches as she went. Quenyah lingered behind, gazing up at the pit of darkness she assumed held a high ceiling and pressing her fingers against the smooth tiles, which were organized into abstract shapes. The elves continued this pattern until the entire room had been circled and enough torches had been lit to see the room’s full expanse. It was not an impressively large room, but it was beautiful. The golden tiles covered it from floor to ceiling and they glinted light from the flames like thousands of fish scales. In the center of the back wall there was a tall statue of a woman with a halla’s horns and elven ears; she was aiming a bow towards the archway they entered through, and surrounding her were several pots and metal containers.

“It’s... marvelous.” Sylen exhaled, as if she had been holding her breath the whole day in preparation for this moment. She was gaping at the statue.

“Is this when you finally tell us what we’re here for?” Quenyah said, looking away from the ceiling.

She turned and grinned sheepishly at Quenyah, attempting to placate her before she had even caused a reaction that would need placating. “I’m not, um, exactly sure. You see, the only information I got about this place was the map the First near Kirkwall sent to me, and even she didn’t know what was in the cave, and there were a bunch of other places marked on the map so I wasn’t sure what this was going to be, but I was thinking that maybe if I could enter the Fade I could find out more about it when I got here--”

“Hold on.”

“So, you two could just keep watch while I sleep and I’ll be done in a few hours and then we can go back and--”

“Hold on.”

“You’re angry with me.”

“I’m irritated! Felas, aren’t you irritated?”

Felas was inspecting one of the metal containers near the statue. “Hm? Oh. Yes.”

“You see, you’ve irritated Felas. Is entering the Fade like this even logistically possible? Not to mention that the Fade is full of demons, it’s incredibly dangerous for a novice mage--” Sylen moved closer to her and placed her hand carefully on her friend’s arm.

“I’m not sure if it will work, but I want to try. You must understand what this would mean to me.” Though perhaps begrudgingly, Quenyah did understand. This room offered her a gift, one that she could share with the clan. It meant a great deal--it meant earning her place.

“For you, then.” Sylen smiled and placed her hand in Quenyah’s, entwining their fingers. Her hand was warm from the heat of the torch. She felt her heart thud against her chest. “We’ll stand watch quietly. Won’t we, Felas?”

“Hmm? Oh, um, no.” He looked up and quickly read Quenyah’s expression. “Yes. Sorry. Yes, we will stand watch.” He dropped a ring back into one the vases he was looking at and dusted off his hands as he stood up. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

She turned back to Sylen and stepped closer to her, close enough to feel heat radiating from her skin. “Please promise me you’ll be careful.” She lowered her gaze to the floor, studying her toes. Quenyah gripped Sylen’s hand tighter. “I don’t know what I would do if I lost you.”

“I promise you.” Sylen pressed her thumb against Quenyah’s palm. “I am not sure it will even work, but I think it is worth a try.”

\----  
The First had laid down in the center of the room after lighting some herbs and candles around her to ‘aid in the process.’ Lyrium would have been best, but that was too difficult for the Dalish to acquire, a result of both the controlled nature of trading lyrium as well as the clan’s distaste for interaction with humans. The herbs smelled sweet and the smoke that curled out of them had gathered as a fog on the ceiling, lingering with nowhere else to go. Sylen fell into her dreams quickly and the air in the cave began to feel thick, sleepy. Felas drifted off within the first forty minutes.

Quenyah estimated that about an hour had passed when she heard a noise. It was not loud and it sounded natural, like a few pebbles falling, but there had been nothing but silence since they had first arrived in the room. Her veins felt cold. As quietly as possible, she shook Felas awake, placing two fingers on his lips to encourage his silence as his eyes blinked awake. Agitation first, then a questioning look. She cupped her ear and pointed towards the narrow tunnel they had entered in, indicating she had heard a noise from that direction. He looked over at Sylen, but Quenyah shook her head. She had considered waking her, but hoped that the noise had been her imagination, hoped that there would be no reason to stop Sylen’s dream so early, hoped that they would investigate and find nothing.

[ _This is the part of the dream where I am not myself anymore; I hover above the scene, watching, not able to stop the following events. It is different this time--someone is here with me. Who?_ ]

These hopes were shattered as she saw the light from their torches.

The rest happened quickly.

An arrow through her brother’s chest, two arrows, blood pouring from his mouth, a scream began to rip through her chest but did not find release as a large hand covered her mouth and a dagger was placed at her throat. She reached towards her brother as he began to slump forward, but the hands around her pulled her to her feet and away from Felas. She felt a muscular body press against her own and thought she might retch as he crumpled to the ground, his eyes in shock before they went lifeless, blood pooling around his body.  
  
She took a moment to try to register this, hanging limp in the human’s arms as a fog covered her eyes like storm clouds. No. She looked away from Felas and towards the still sleeping figure of Sylen. “That’s right, don’t wanna wake your sleepin’ friend just yet.” This came from the man who held her. His voice was gruff, human, and she hated him. Her brain could process two thoughts at the moment, ranked distinctly: the desire protect Sylen and the desire to kill this man. There was still time, before they figured out the sleeping elf was mage--Quenyah might die, but perhaps Sylen could live--she willed her body to move and she bit the shemlen’s hands as she used her free hand to unsheathe a dagger from her belt. He yelped from the bite, released his hand from her mouth but now used it to grab her arm, twisting it behind her back and opening up her palm so the dagger clattered to the floor.

He pressed the knife closer to her throat, so close that she thought she felt her blood rising to meet it. She tried to move back from it, tilt her head away, but it only drove her further into the shem’s chest and made breathing more difficult. She felt a warm liquid on her hand, the one that had held the dagger, and a sick copper taste in her mouth. It must have been the human’s blood. At least there was that.

“Like wild animals, they are!” The accent was heavy, like the few human merchants she had met around the Free Marches.

The other human came into view now, in the dim light offered by the few torches still lit. He was holding a bow. He must have killed Felas. “We ought to thank them for leading us here, yeah?” He moved towards Sylen, bow aimed at her throat as he looked over the burning herbs and candles and then noticed the staff. “Think this one’s a mage, boss.” His voice was not so confident now.

“Huh? Didn’t know these savages could be mages. Guess that makes your friend an apostate.” The man who held Quenyah said the word into her ear, his lips grazing her skin. It was a threat, as if the dagger at her throat was not enough. “Take the stick and then wake her up. We’ll need her to get more knife-ear treasures.”

The second man did as he was told, tossing Sylen’s staff behind him and then repositioning his bow before kicking her a few times. Quenyah winced and the shem holding her grunted, amused. Sylen did not take much time to wake, her eyes sprung open but she was disoriented, unable to quickly understand the situation. Her eyes darted around the room, finally landing on Felas, then the arrow pointed in her face, then Quenyah and the knife at her throat. She sat up and shuffled backwards on the ground, bumping up against the statue of the halla-horned woman as the man with the bow followed her like a wolf stalking his prey.

“Give us the bag you got there, elf, and all the little trinkets behind you and no one else needs ta get hurt.”

“Better listen to him, girlie. You and your friend here are in a precarious position.” Sylen looked up at Quenyah and they held each other’s gaze for a moment, finding solace in each other.  
  
Someone coughed behind them and all four turned to look towards the source of the noise. Felas, still crumpled on the ground, was trying to stand up, clutching his chest with one arm as he used the other for support. He held out a sword. [He looks at me, disembodied me.] The shemlen near Sylen quickly loosed another arrow and it hit its mark, piercing Felas’s skull, just above his eyes. The shem holding Quenyah had loosened his grip on the dagger at her throat just for a moment, just for one precious second, and Quenyah wrenched her arm from his grip and knocked the dagger from his hand. She grabbed a small blade hidden in the wrappings that wound their way up her legs and flipped it in her hands before turning around and quickly slicing the shem’s throat, digging into his skin with malice. Specks of blood covered her cheek.

She heard the other shem knocking his arrow and she whirled to find its metal tip pointed at her face. Suddenly, the air in the room drastically dropped temperature and the shem was encased in a thick layer of ice, his face frozen in shock. She looked behind him to find Sylen still on the ground with her palm up. She was trembling.

“Guess they had never seen a mage before--didn’t know you didn’t need a staff to cast spells.” Quenyah grabbed the dagger on the ground and stepped over the body of the shem she had killed and around the other, now frozen. She held out her hand to Sylen. It was soaked in blood. “Come on. There will be others.”

The First hesitated. Her breath was shallow and her eyes were wide, white, her skin paling. She was staring at Felas.

Quenyah softened her voice. “Sylen, please. It’s me. It will be okay.” She reached out and took her hand, slinging her arm over her shoulder and hoisting her to her feet. “Walk. Breathe.”

“Felas.” Sylen’s voice was raspy, her throat dry. “His amulet.”

“Right.” Quenyah held her breath and grabbed the necklace that hung around Felas’ neck and tugged it off of him, refusing to look at her brother’s face, although his spilled blood now covered the soles of her feet. “Let’s go.”

Sylen began to sob, her chest heaving, and she clung to Quenyah. “How can you be so calm?” She said, her voice now barely a whisper.

She wasn’t calm, she was actively pushing down the bile that threatened to rise up her throat and pretending that her heart was not slamming against her ribs at an alarming speed. She focused on the face of the elf in front of her, found some stability in trying to keep her safe, trying to not think about what she might tell her parents, how to tell them that she let her brother die, how she had failed. There was so much blood all over her, it spilled out of her mouth, covered her cheek, her clothes, her hands. “Please, please, Sylen. We must leave.”

They would not come back for her brother’s body. The image of his corpse forever trapped in an ancient elven room burned in her mind.

[ _Solas? Solas, is that you?_ ]

[ _Wake up. Wake up. Wake up._ ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quenyah is definitely a Leo. solas is probably a capricorn? sagittarius maybe


	12. a matter debated

Quenyah shot awake just before dawn, her quarters awash in the dim, warm glow of the rising sun. The dream had felt more real, coherent, and vivid than any dream she had in many months. And the dream before that... well, that was unlike any dream she had ever had. And it was real. She was certain that it was real, that Solas was there. _Oh, Creators, Solas was there_.

“ _Fenedhis_.” The Inquisitor shoved the animal skins from her bed (an allowable transgression until Josephine was able to procure better sheets) and moved across the cold, stone floor to her dresser. She pulled a bit of leather from the counter and tied it tightly around a gathered mess of curls on the top of her head. Other necessary items lay scattered around her room and she pulled them on quickly: the shirt she wore while sparring with Blackwall yesterday, the pants that had the least holes in them, her boots (pulling them off again when she realized she had forgotten socks), and a red strip of fabric tied around her waist to keep her pants from falling down and her shirt tucked in. It also covered an unsightly yellow stain on the back of her shirt, though it did not do much for the grass stains on her knees.

The sun still had not risen by the time she entered the main hall, and Skyhold was languid. Rosy light made a weak attempt at pouring through the stained glass that sat above the Inquisitor’s chair, and the sounds of early morning birds ricocheted off of the castle’s walls. Guards on watch overnight yawned by the door, the only ones awake so early. Aside from, of course, Solas, who was where she expected him to be. He was leaning over the table he had covered in open books and glowing artifacts they had found in their travels. He bent down to scribble a note in the margins of a book, a candle he had lit flickering from the subtle movement of air. Crows cawed and clamored in their nests above, just beginning to awake.

There were quick footsteps behind her, in the hall. “Inquisitor! There you are.” It was Josephine, and she grabbed Quenyah’s hand, tugging her away from the door to the rotunda. Solas looked up at the noise, startled, and they caught each other’s eyes briefly. An image from the Fade bubbled up in her mind. The way he had looked at her just before she kissed him, all of the colors in his face more beautiful, more rich, more real somehow.

The ambassador’s thick Antivan accent and another tug of her hand cut through her murky thoughts. “Did you forget that we have set aside today to go through all the work that must be done in the next month?” Quenyah chanced a look back at the door to the rotunda. Solas stood there, staring at her. He turned back into the rotunda at nearly the same moment she had caught his eye. “There are many matters that require your attention.”

Quenyah forced herself to focus her attention on Josephine. “You’re sure I need to be there? The whole day?”

“Yes. You are, after all, the Inquisitor.” Josephine gave a wry smile, the sort of smile she had seen Josephine use often when dealing with particularly stubborn guests.

It was many hours, and many arguments, later that Quenyah could finally see the sun hitting the middle of the sky. The shadows in the war room were short and the temperature the warmest it could get to in the mountains. It had not taken her long to see where she could fit into the war table discussions. Some decisions were easy, and best left to her advisors to decide, and others only required a new voice to settle them. Destroying marriages, sending aid to villages, ordering the proper drapes--these all seemed to fall under the umbrella of their duties as the Inqusition. The deference they paid to her opinion as Inquisitor was weightier than when she was merely Herald. Now she had a title born from their own opinions of her rather than only circumstance and legend.

“Is it time to break for lunch?” The red-haired elf said, pulling her gaze away from the window and learning forward in her chair.

Josephine stood above the table and checked the papers that lay on her wooden board, humming to herself as her eyes moved down the list. “Two more matters to resolve before we can break.”

“Okay, let’s get them over with.”

“The first has to do with the fate of the mayor of Crestwood. Cullen?”

Cullen shifted and leaned his weight against the table, the metal he wore clinking with his movements. “My troops have tracked him far south of the town, and he is likely hiding out in the caves in that area. They only wait on your word, Inquisitor, to have him brought to Skyhold to face justice.”

Quenyah studied the map that lay on the table before them, picking at a bit of loose skin on her lower lip. A small, metal fist lay south of Crestwood on the map, a marker indicating the location of a small battalion of Cullen’s soldiers. “I think we should leave him alone.”

Cullen scoffed, looking over to the Inquisitor across the table. “You are suggesting we do nothing with him? A man who drowned an entire community of people requesting his aid?”

“You don’t think he has atoned enough? Let his conscience be his punishment.”

Leliana, often lithe and predatory in the war room, softened, leaning back from the table. “Give us a better reason.”

Quenyah cleared her throat. “The man made an incredibly difficult decision in a very dark time. It was... I cannot condone what he did, but I can understand his reasoning. He may have saved the lives of many people in Crestwood, but has had to bear the lives lost on his shoulders for a very long time. Let us use our sparse army for more pressing action and leave this man to stew in his own regret.”

“When Lothering fell to the darkspawn, the Revered Mother and several templars stayed in the town until the very last of the refugees had secured safe passage,” Leliana said. “They stayed so long that they did not make it out alive. Many others made even greater sacrifices in the Blight, but you believe this man to be deserving of forgiveness?”

“We have all made mistakes. We have just been fortunate enough to have not made mistakes with such heavy consequences.”

Josephine held her board steady, posture always elegant and sharp. “I must agree with Lavellan.” Her eyes stayed focused on the papers in front of her, likely avoiding a look of disapproval from her Orlesian friend.

Cullen rubbed his chin with his gloved hand. “Maker’s breath,” he paused, considering. “I suppose our forces could be put to better use. Caer Bronach is currently working on a High Dragon problem that would benefit from additional troops.”

Leliana had not broken her steady gaze at Lavellan. “I suppose I am overruled.”

 _Have you done nothing for which you must seek forgiveness, Leliana? I find that hard to believe._ Quenyah stayed her tongue and leaned back in the chair. “It’s settled, then.” Her stomach urged her on, the empty pit more than prepared for the promised lunch. “The last task on our agenda, Ambassador?”

“Well,” Josephine looked up sheepishly from her papers. “The last item we must deal with has to do with your... attire.”

“My attire!”

“The look does remind me a bit of a young Fereldan farm boy,” Leliana stifled a laugh into her thick gloves.

“I was about to say she looks a bit like a pirate’s deck hand after too many weeks at sea,” Cullen said.

“You too, Cullen? You wound me! I defended you when Leliana wanted to put you in blue silk and fennec furs.”

“The Commander looked very distinguished, I thought,” Leliana said. Cullen seemed to bristle at the reminder of what might have been.

“I would sooner compare her to a wandering vagrant who has not had a bath in quite some time,” Josephine added, and now all three of her advisors were chuckling at their own jokes.

“Might I remind you all that I was raised in the forest among a nomadic people? That my home was a wagon?”

Josephine dipped her quill in the ink pot that rested on her board and scratched out a note. “I’ll have made arrangements for you to meet with a tailor in Val Royeaux next week, Inquisitor Lavellan.”

Quenyah covered her face with her hands and resigned herself to her fate. She had never been to a tailor before, or even worn clothes that had not previously belonged to someone else. Even the things she had picked up around Haven had been used Inquisition regulars. Though she found Val Royeaux to be a revolting place of excess and false refinement, perhaps a new outfit or two would not be so terrible. “Fine.”

After adding something else to her notes, Josephine looked up to address all of them. “We break and reconvene in an hour. There is still much to discuss.”

The four of them sleepily exited the war room, the burst of cold air that swept the hall and poured in from the gaping hole in the wall doing little to energize their spirits. It had been a terribly long day already, and their slow pace ensured that the meeting would drag on until nightfall. The relief she would feel when finally sinking into her bed for the night was--

Solas.

“ _Fenedhis_ ,” she hissed. She had nearly forgotten the dream--the kiss--from the previous night. They kissed! And not much later after that did he stumble into one of her most private memories. She felt sickeningly vulnerable all over again, the distance in time from that morning not doing much to quell her embarrassment. He had to be faced. Everything had to be faced. It was with some trepidation that Quenyah moved through the main hall.

Unsurprisingly, she found him in the rotunda once again. The muffled conversations of the Spymaster’s birds, both human and avian, echoed around the circular room. A clatter from above sounded like someone dropping a stack of books. He was not engrossed in his texts this time, though his focus was equally applied somewhere else. He considered the mural he had been working on, a finger absentmindedly tracing the edge of his jawline.

“Solas.”

He turned from his work. “Lavellan.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Sleep well?”

“When I asked to talk to you, I did not think we would be doing it in the Fade.” She gave a small smile. “Or for that matter, _doing it_ in the Fade.”

He chuckled and she smiled wider. “I apologize. The kiss was impulsive and ill considered. I should not have encouraged it.”

That stung a little, but she pressed on, dancing around the more awkward subject that loomed in the room with them. “You say that, but you’re the one who started with tongue.”

“I did no such thing!”

“Oh, does it not count if it’s only Fade-tongue?”

“It has been a long time, and things have always been easier for me in the Fade.” He paused. “I’m not often thrown by things that happen in dreams.”

She felt embarrassment burn her cheeks. “I--I’m so sorry that you had to see that. The mark, the Anchor, it does something to me in the Fade. My dreams tend to be.. overwhelmingly real.” She touched the scar on her ear. “I’m so embarrassed--”

“Don’t be. It was a memory, then?”

“Mostly. Some things change, but the main points are all there.”

Solas dropped his gaze to the ground, then smoothed a wrinkle in his shirt. “I am sorry for the loss of your brother, Lavellan.”

“It was many years ago. The life of a Dalish elf can be perilous, and we all know the risks.” She swallowed. Did that sound convincing?  “It could have been worse. It could have been Sera who was privy to my dreams.”

That earned her another smile. “Yes.” The two elves fell into a short silence, looking at each other. She thought she heard Dorian admonishing a librarian for organizing books incorrectly above them, but the buzzing in her head drowned him out. _I felt the whole world change_. “I’m not sure this is the best idea. It could lead to trouble,” Solas said.

“I’m willing to take that chance, if you are.”

He started a little. “I... maybe, yes. If I could take some time to think. There are.. considerations.” The light from the burning torch on the wall passed over his skin, warming it, casting shadows.

“Take all the time you need.”

“Thank you.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I am reasonably certain we are awake now, and if you wished to discuss anything, I would enjoy talking.”

She was about to ask him about his studies, but there the appearance of a familiar dwarf in the doorway stopped her. “Inquisitor, someone has arrived in Skyhold who I think you should meet,” Varric said.

“Is there something wrong, Varric? Your chest hair is all askance.”

“I’m afraid I've done something that will invoke the ire of our Seeker.”

“More ire than you usually invoke?”

Varric laughed, though his mirth was somewhat restrained. “If I’m dead tomorrow morning, you’ll know who did it.”

She looked back with regret at Solas. "Could I speak with you later, Solas?"

He gave a short nod. "Of course, Inquisitor."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i preserved most of their conversation, because i think it is one of the best dialogues in the game. i'll be camping out in the wilderness for the rest of the week for work, so i'm not sure when i will update! hopefully early next week. 
> 
> thank you all for reading.
> 
> Also p.s. leliana is wrong, young ferelden farm boy is a great look


	13. lothering's most eligible bachelor

Hawke was all sharp edges. Lavellan had watched her spar in the yard and marveled at the way her fighting style worked effortlessly as an extension of her personality. Hawke used her shield the way she used her wit, to knock her opponent off balance and hide the impending bite of her sword. She was not aggressive but still threatened, eyes like blue acid made up of pained vitriol that could only be born of loss. Varric had described her differently in his novel, and Lavellan had imagined her less exhausted and her humor less dry. Perhaps the difference between reality and fiction was a result of both Varric’s embellishment and of carrying the weight of heavy titles for long years. Perhaps at some point Hawke had been like Varric described, young and defiant, but now she mostly seemed... tired.

Isabela was soft in all the places Hawke was sharp. She invited, welcomed her opponents to their death with warmth and bubbling mirth. Isabela had the rare gift of making her opponent feel that they wanted whatever she deigned to give them.Her movements were small dances, extra paces taken to deceive an enemy into forgetting the blade that would be their end.

Together, they were harmonious. They both looked warmer, quieter now in the red light of the tavern hearth’s fire and with the fuzzy halos that came with too much drink.

“Hawke and I were in the Fade together once,” Isabela said, her voice mingling with the cacophony of noises in the tavern. A group of scouts had returned from the field a little before sunset and they celebrated their survival raucously near the bar.

“Ah, yes. It was distinctly lacking in any tongue kissing, though. I recall you betraying me to a demon in exchange for a boat.” Hawke was leaning against the bench’s back with her arm slung behind Isabela. She looked at the pirate as if she was faultless, a whole world of purity, even as she describes her betrayal. “I believe your exact phrasing was, ‘I like big boats, I cannot lie.’”

“Well, I have a boat now. And a new hat. So there’s nothing for a demon to tempt me with anymore.” Isabela grinned. “I’m all yours!”

Hawke laughed, quickly and lightly. “You’re telling me if someone offered you a dozen handmaidens to attend to all your needs, you’d refuse?”

Isabela looked to the side and hummed, feigning contemplation. “It depends. Do these handmaidens come equipped with... certain assets?”

Varric laughed into his drink. “Hawke doesn’t have enough assets for you?”

A streak of red and yellow flew by their table before Isabela could answer, followed by a low call of ‘Sera!’ that was so loud it could have only come from the Iron Bull. Sera’s snorts of laughter echoed across the room as she danced up the stairs.

Lavellan took several deep gulps of her wine.

“We’re being rude to our dear Inquisitor. I believe she was trying to solicit our advice about her _encounter_ in the Fade,” Hawke said.

She finished her drink and sighed before responding. “Well--the problem isn’t really with the sexy bits so much as it’s about the whole--” She gestured wildly, briefly making a tiny bow and arrow with her hands and then drawing a finger across her neck. The warmth from the wine filled up her chest. She briefly considered what Solas would think if he knew she was revealing the details of their _encounter_ to two relative strangers and Varric, but suppressed the thought rather easily.

“The tragic murder bits?” Varric offered, helpfully interpreting her hand movements.

“Yes, that.” She took another drink of wine to quell any especially deep contemplation on the events that had transpired in the dream.

Isabela leaned into the table, the golden piercing below her lip catching the light of the candle on the table. It was the same color as her eyes. “You may be overthinking this, duck. _All_ the apostates I know have tragic histories.” Her voice had a naturally comforting tone. “It’s likely your Solas has seen much worse.”

Lavellan picked up the freshly filled glass the barmaid had set down on their table and drank deeply from it. Varric eyed her warily, but she pretended not to notice. “Apostates? Like Merrill?”

“That’s right, I forgot you knew Merrill,” Hawke said.

“You knew I stayed with her in Kirkwall?” Quenyah asked. A chorus of laughter broke out from the part of the tavern the Chargers had made their own.

“No, I meant because you’re both--because you must have--you stayed with Merrill in Kirkwall?”

Suddenly Quenyah felt hot. She brushed her hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. “I--um, yes. For a couple nights.”

Varric was staring at her. “You never mentioned that,” he said, the pitch of his voice raising a little, like it often did when he was catching the first threads of a story.

“I traveled a bit when I was young.”

“Young? But you’re still quite young now.”

Sera’s figure was approaching their table rapidly once more and Quenyah seized her chance, grabbing the elf’s arm as she passed. “Sera! Would you dance with me?”

“You’re off it, right?”

“Very much so.” Quenyah stood from the table and called across the room. “Maryden, play something a little more upbeat?” The bard had been in the midst of another song about the grave duty of the Grey Wardens or one of the many other tragic tunes in her repertoire that had the tendency to ruin the mood. There were a few other shouts of agreement with the Inquisitor, and Maryden nodded as she stopped and pulled out her fiddle. Lavellan took another drink from her cup. “You should join us.”

The scouts at the bar had begun to dance and Sera slipped from the Inquisitor’s grasp and into the fray. Isabela smiled up at the elf. “Perhaps a little later, duck.”

As Lavellan disappeared from their table, Hawke leaned in a little closer. “Your Inquisitor is not quite what I expected, Varric.”

“Yeah, and you haven’t even seen her fight yet. She would make Fenris seem like a mild mannered rabbit in comparison.”

Hawke snorted. “Now that’s a visual.”

Isabela examined the contents of her mug and then peered over at the red-haired elf as she danced barefoot around Sera. “I feel sorry that she's been tasked with cleaning up the mess that others have left.”

“The mess that _we_ left, you mean?” Hawke said.

“I thought we all agreed to blame the whole thing on Sebastian,” Varric said, taking a sip from his mug.

Hawke laughed. “Sebastian was sort of an asshole, wasn't he?”

“At least she’s older than you were when I first met you, Hawke. All long limbs and puppy dog eyes.”

Hawke leaned towards Isabela. “Hey! I’ll have you know I was quite the catch in Lothering. Pimpled farm boys often fought for the chance to ask for my hand.”

Isabela placed her hand on Hawke’s jaw and traced the edge with her index finger. “No one will believe I managed to snare Lothering’s most eligible bachelor.”

Placing her hand on the table, Hawke moved closer to her lover until she was inches from her lips. “Quite a pair we make. The legendary beauty of Lothering and the Queen of the Eastern Seas.”

From across the room, Quenyah watched them and bit the inside of her cheek. Something like nausea spread through her chest. She gazed at them through the gaps in the many bodies that now danced across the tavern’s wooden floor, and watched as the two women kissed. That feeling, that nausea, turned green. She hated herself for feeling it. Blinking, Lavellan removed herself from the dance and slipped out the door.

The night sky was clear and bright. The courtyard of Skyhold was awash in the soft silver glow of a full moon, painting the landscape shades of grey. Lavellan let out a deep breath and it formed a thin, ephemeral cloud before dissipating into the night air. The warmth from the alcohol she had imbibed sat like a loose ball in her chest despite the cold, but she still tugged her shirt closer to her body as she wandered inside the main hall.

There were no torches left lit in the rotunda, and no Solas to be found. The sounds of merriment from the tavern still played faintly in the distance. Lavellan moved towards the center of the room, examining the unfinished mural that covered a portion of the wall. Silver moonlight poured in from the windows above and colored the painting in grey monotone, and a single crow squawked above.

She tried to quell a deep pining for the room’s usual occupant. She said she would give him time, but how long would he take? What was there to consider? They wanted each other. He wanted her. Was it not so simple?

No, of course it wasn’t, and it would be foolish to pretend otherwise. Time and space were the only things she could offer him. It would require a struggle against her impatient nature, but she could stay it with the promise of What Might Be. Lavellan closed her eyes and tried to picture what a life with him could look like, but did not find that the fantasy came together easily. She had barely expected that he could ever return her feelings, and had cautioned herself against hope so often that it now seemed out of reach. So much had changed between them in the last week, but the most important pieces remained the same. 

Lavellan stretched out her arm into the light of a moon beam. The Anchor reacted to the movement, emitting a small burst of green energy. The Solas she knew in Haven had seemed so solid, so real. The more she learned of him the more she realized she did not know, and the bits of him she tried to grab onto fell away, crumbling like plaster, becoming more and more like a ghost. Of one thing she was certain: he would not be the port in the storm.

If anything, he was the storm.  


* * *

 

“Lavellan?” Dorian’s eyes blinked sleepily, attempting to adjust to the light of the candle in the Inquisitor’s hand.

She set the candle down on the table next to his bed. “Scoot over.” She was still unsure of how he had managed it, but Dorian’s quarters were quite a bit larger than the standard Inquisition model. His bed was bigger, too, and he even had a bookshelf and a desk. The shelf held a sparse collection of books, and a neat stack of research notes lay next to a pot of ink on his desk.

Dorian sat up, pushing back black hair that had been undone by sleep. “What is this all about?”

“I can’t sleep alone tonight. Just let me sleep next to you.” She had begun to pull off her boots. “We don’t even have to cuddle.”

“Were you up late reading one of Varric’s romance novels, again? His writing can be quite frightening.”

Lavellan gave a small smile and climbed into bed, blowing out the candle as she pulled up the covers. “It was something like that.”

Dorian looked down at her with an eyebrow raised. “You act as if this is a regular habit.”

“You’re not okay with this? I’m still not good at picking up on human boundaries.”

“Ah, you’ve played the naive Dalish elf card. How could I chastise you now?”

Lavellan hummed, wrapping his blankets around her. “Personal space among the Dalish is practically nonexistent.” She closed her eyes. “As the weather changed in late autumn each year, at night the entire clan would lay together in a tangle of limbs and animal furs to keep warm while the hunters took turns on watch. We’d undress in front of each other, bathe with each other, sleep with each other.”

Dorian scrunched his nose at the thought, though he supposed there was something quaint about it. “How charming.”

“Come now, Dorian,” The Inquisitor’s voice was fading and she stifled a yawn as Dorian sank back into the bed and pulled back his share of the blankets. “Isn’t there anything you miss about Tevinter?”

He was silent for a moment. The sharpest and clearest memories of that place were all ones he would rather not dwell on, but of course there were things that he missed. The South, for instance, had quite a limited selection of wine. Maevaris was the first to show him how to taste wine, how to separate the notes and flavors in each glass, how to choose based on color and year, which paired best with a particular meal...

“Yes, there are things I miss,” he said, finally.

"Do you miss your family?"

Dorian blinked. His immediate answer and a more truthful answer were opposites, but neither accurately conveyed the full spectrum of his feelings on the subject. Lavellan's breathing had already gone even and deep, and he supposed her sleep was likely aided by the wine that stained her lips. The mage from Tevinter closed his eyes and attempted to follow her lead. 

It was many hours later that Dorian felt a stabbing pain in his palm and awoke to see the room bathed in green light. The Inquisitor’s hand was entwined in his and the Anchor was reacting violently, static charges bursting from the unnatural split in her skin. Her jaw was set painfully tight and her eyebrows drawn together, though she made no noise except for a low, quiet groan in her throat. He clasped her hand tighter, ignoring the pain, and shook Lavellan awake. "Lavellan!"

Her eyes opened with shock and she took a gasping breath as if breaching the surface after being held underwater. She gazed around the room, appraising her surroundings, and landed on Dorian. Her breathing slowed.

“Bad dream?”

“Yes. I’m so sorry to wake you.” Lavellan looked down at her hand, noticing for the first time that Dorian still held it.

The mage let go and got out of bed. “Think nothing of it. Keep sleeping, I’ll go make you some tea.”

It must have been morning already. She heard the sounds of birds singing outside of the window above Dorian’s bed. “Thank you, Pavus.” Too tired to protest or offer much more than thanks, Lavellan sank back into the mattress and turned over to lay on her stomach. They would be leaving for Crestwood in a few hours.


	14. in bed

A month passed quickly. Stories unfurled themselves, her legend grew grander, her enemies fewer. She helped save Solas’ friend. He left. She waited until he came back. He said, “Losing you would--” They _kissed_. Then, “Ar lath ma’vhenan.” Everything between them changed.

She watched Warden Commander Clarel sacrifice herself to make up for (run away from?) devastating mistakes. She fell into the Fade. She heard Nightmare speak to Solas. She wondered if he knew she understood. Stroud stayed behind.

They walked, they rode, they fought. Fresh bruises bloomed on her body at a steady rate. Sera offered advice and counsel on how to cut one’s own hair, and Quenyah finally took a sword to it one afternoon. Vivienne called in a stylist from Orlais shortly afterwards. A fresh scar had formed on her thigh, courtesy of a Pride demon at Adamant and her inattention. Returning to Skyhold began to feel like returning home.

The clothes from Val Royeaux arrived and Josephine unceremoniously tossed three quarters of her wardrobe into the trash. Quenyah was only allowed to keep the remaining few pieces after successfully arguing that anything with only one hole could still be salvaged--though items of clothing with two or more holes could not be protected from their fate. The Inquisitor began to wear fine leathers, silk shirts, golden embellishments, and boots that somehow repelled water around Skyhold, no longer looking like a raggedy Herald plucked from the unwashed masses, but rather like a dignified Inquisitor. Leliana taught her how to do her hair before meeting nobles. Some days she got away with wrapping her feet in a Dalish weave and walking around with no boots at all.

The Inquisitor became a familiar face to the guards on night watch. It was common to see her wandering the main hall under candlelight, eyes bleary but still keen, sometimes pacing in front of her throne, sometimes found in the War Room staring fixedly at dozens of maps unrolled on the table, other times she simply stood on one of Skyhold’s many parapets and peered off into the distance. A few nights she fell asleep in the rotunda while watching Solas paint or read but always awoke within a few hours. The guards reported that she seemed in a good mood, and her work had not suffered, so no effort had been made to mitigate her new habit.

Tonight was a night meant for parapet staring. It had been snowing for the last few days, making for bright white nights, fresh snow and heavy clouds flooded with moonshine. The snow had stopped this afternoon and now stars filled the cloudless sky, unfathomably numerous and deep. Perfect staring conditions.

Quenyah pulled her overcoat closer to her body and dug her chin into her scarf. While many places in the castle could be unusually warm, up on the walls the wind was unfettered and the cold bit through cloth with no trouble. It would be dishonest to say that parapet staring was a pleasant way to pass the time, but there was something to be said for painful, bitter cold. It kept her awake, sharpened her mind, kept demons at bay.

Her mind wasn’t quite sharp enough to pick up on the footsteps approaching her parapet spot, however, at least not until he had finally slid up next to her on the wall. She pretended to be unphased, but silently noted the increased speed of her heartbeat.

He spoke first. “Good evening.”

She gave a little smile and buried it in her scarf. “Good evening, Solas.”

Solas was wearing what he always wore. He had been allowed to keep his wardrobe while hers was likely burned to ashes, thrown off of the mountain, or packed away in a trunk and buried ten feet underground.

“What brings you to the walls of Skyhold tonight?” She rubbed her thumb in a divet in the stone wall.

“Curiosity,” he said, his breath curling in the frigid air as frosty white smoke. “Is this what you do with your time, Inquisitor? I had expected that somewhat more productive pursuits took up the late hours you keep.”

She kept her gaze on the sky. “This is productive! You have no idea the sorts of clever things that are rattling around in my mind.” Quenyah grinned and looked up at him.

Their expressions did not quite match. Solas moved towards her and traced her temple, brushing her curls behind her ear. Quenyah felt a warmth flood her cheeks. He leaned in and kissed her forehead. “My heart.”

 _Don’t lie_.

Quenyah closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Rather used to pulling it out of him, she was without words as his affection was offered unbidden. With some hesitation, she moved her hand to place it over his, and noting that it was much colder than her own she turned to press herself against his chest, then unbuttoned her coat and draped half of it over his shoulders and half over her own. The gesture softened him.

“What do you require from me?” He said.

She did not speak immediately, taking her time instead to produce the courage to tell the truth. She spoke into his chest. “I need--I need--I need you to come to bed with me.”

He withdrew enough to face her, letting the coat slip from his shoulders. His expression was pained and he did not meet her eye. “I do not believe that would help you.”

She was losing him, quickly, and she cursed herself for not soaking in the warmth of his tenderness for just a moment longer. She kept her eyes focused on the floor. “It wouldn’t be--we wouldn’t--” A deep inhale, exhale, raised her head to look at him. “I just need someone to sleep next to me.” Another breath. “Please.” Her head felt a little dizzy from the intoxication of vulnerability.

A rush of wind swept between them, rippling through her red hair, a stray curl sticking to the edge of her lip. The overcoat lay on the ground, now, not protecting either of them from the bitter chill that now rushed over the stone crenelations, though neither Solas or Quenyah made a move to pick it up to protect themselves from the pain. Quenyah felt the wind pull tears from her eyes, but she fought to keep them open, to keep holding his gaze. The moment seemed to span forever, deep as the crowd of stars above them.

\-------

She was the first to awake the next morning. They had fallen asleep unceremoniously, limbs tangled, bedsheets twisted. The sunlight poured in from her stained glass windows. Quenyah gently pulled her leg from his and lay on her chest, facing him, hands underneath the pillows.

Solas awoke not much later, though she made quick sketches in her mind of how young, unburdened, he seemed while asleep. He rolled over sleepily to face her.

“Good morning, Solas.”

He smiled. It was glorious.

She smiled too and crept towards him, raising herself up only to lower her face over his, kissing him as he cupped her chin with his hand.

“Good morning.”

The next half hour was passed in near silence. Quenyah lay her head on his chest and listened to his heart beat as he traced the edges of her body, lightly touching her skin and then moved upwards, he thumbed the shaved edges of her hair, then moved to the missing piece of her ear.

She hummed. “I should go prepare. I leave for the Exalted Plains this morning.”

“Shhh,” he hushed, eyes closed.

The Dales could probably wait another half hour.

“I suspect that there is an interesting story to accompany the scar.”

Her hand instinctively raised to feel it, the scarred skin, but met his hand instead. She bit the edge of her lip. “I don’t think it’s... It isn’t a story you tell at parties.”

“Ah.”

Quenyah rolled off of his chest and lay on her side to look at him. “Let’s make a deal. I’ll tell you my scar story if you tell me yours.” She made a movement of her head to indicate the depression in his skin just above his eyebrow.

“You have made your point, Inquisitor. It was a bad choice of topic for such a beautiful morning.”

“You cannot get away with calling me that while you are lying in my bed.”

Solas smiled again, a smaller one this time, and opened his eyes to look at the ceiling. They did not speak again for a moment, each one not yet prepared to break the delicate ecosystem they had created, a kind of starry sky of their own making, something they both recognized as an illusion. A chandelier affixed to a cliff.

“Am I not accompanying you to the Plains?”

“What?”

“You said ‘I,’ not ‘we.’”

So clever, even this early in the morning. “I’m taking Vivienne this time. She doesn’t trust or like me very much, and I need her help with Orlais, so we are going to bond. Besides, I need you here.” Quenyah propped her head up on her hand. “Josephine is entertaining Duke Gaspard’s emissaries while I’m gone and I need you to tell me what you think of them.” She fiddled with the end of the sheet between her forefinger and thumb. “While I value Josephine’s opinion, I need someone here I feel I can... I can trust.”

“That... seems a sound decision.”

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “And you didn’t believe me when I said I was productive at night.”

The sun had risen, now shining its rays in a streak across her bed. Quenyah squinted in the light, dropping back down onto the bed, the light now painting her shoulder golden. Solas leaned across the bed and kissed the dip in her collarbone and she felt sunshine warmth deep into her chest. He kissed lower, then between her breasts.

“Will you forget me when I’m gone?” She said.

“Impossible,” he said, then she lay the tips of her fingers underneath his chin and kissed him.

* * *

 

Blackwall lived in the barn. At first it seemed just an odd affectation or another facet of his matyr complex, this desire of his to accept the bare minimum in almost every aspect of his life including living quarters, but Quenyah realized now that it was something else. It was not that he preferred the solitude or had a love for the smell of horse or that he liked having a view of the night sky through the broken roof. Thom Rainier did not believe he deserved anything better than living in the stable.

When the Inquisitor had arranged for his judgment to be commuted to her own court and then made the decision to give his life over to the Grey Wardens, he did not say thank you. Rainier instead proclaimed to those watching in the hall of Skyhold that all of Thedas would now know that the Inquisition was a corrupt organization that did not respect the law--that the Inquisitor herself was no longer a trustworthy representative of the people. Quenyah let him shout, for she understood the inclination to lash out at the person who had just stopped you in your path of self destruction. She knew better than to expect gratitude in that moment, or at any moment in the near future, but no amount of wisdom could stop her from wondering if the decision she had made was the wrong one.

“Hello, Thom, thought I’d drop by, see how you’re adjusting to the Inquisition.”

“I am in no mood to play games with you, Inquisitor.” He was sitting on a stool in front of the wooden gryffon he had been carving meticulously since arriving in Skyhold, painting small details on each feather of its wing. When she thought of Blackwall as a Grey Warden, she believed his obsession with this sculpture could be traced to his lack of imagination, a fascination with a singular subject. Now that she knew everything he had told her was a grand work of creative fiction fabricated by someone obviously capable of great originality, she still thought the sculpture was rather boring.

Quenyah leaned against the gate of a stable behind his crafting table. “Good. I don’t like games very much, either.”

“Have you come here because you expect me to apologize?”

“No, that would be foolish.”

Blackwall grunted and dipped his paintbrush into more grey paint, applying it to the wood with a slow and steady hand.

“I really hated you when I thought you were a Grey Warden.” She gripped the top of the gate with both hands. “Running around saving people, fighting for a righteous cause, sacrificing everything to become a Warden. You were so perfect. It kind of pissed me off.”

He looked up at her. “And now that you know I slaughtered a family you find me charming, is that it?”

“No. You still piss me off.”

At least he laughed, though it wasn’t exactly the kind of laugh that made someone feel good inside.

“But at least now I know you didn’t just pop out of a children’s story about knights and princesses to annoy me.”

He set down his brush and stared at her. “I am being lectured on heroism by the person they call the Herald of Andraste? An elf who was saved by the Bride of the Maker and survived a fight with an avatar of pure evil, against all odds?”

“I wasn’t always the Herald of Andraste.”

“Yes, that’s right. Before you were chosen to be Andraste’s representative on earth, you lived in the forest with a clan of nomadic elves, picking berries and dancing barefoot under the moon.” He laughed again, short and defiant. “That doesn’t sound at all like an origin story from a fairy tale.”

“No, I meant...” She paused. “I was an assassin for four years in various cities across the Free Marches.” She did not know where this wave of honesty came from, but it crashed into her, pulling her along. She chose to keep following it. “I started by killing people I thought deserved it. I thought I was delivering justice.”

“Justice for who?”

“For elves, I guess?” She laughed. “Anyway, it started like that. Eventually I ran out of food, money, a will to live, everything--so I started killing for money. This noble took me on as his personal murder machine and I did whatever he asked me to do. I killed... _so_ many people.” She looked down at her hands and furrowed her brow. “They called me ‘ _Harellan_ ,’ which means ‘the dreaded’ in elvhen. It started because I saw something happening that I thought was wrong, and I tried to fix it. I thought I could be a hero, that the People would follow my lead, but nothing happened like I thought it would.”

Blackwall picked up his paintbrush again and dipped it in a pot of black paint. He applied it along the edge of the griffon’s wing, giving it a subtle shadow. The sun was directly above the stable now and it burst through the missing slats in the roof, catching bits of floating sawdust in its rays. It was too warm. “Is there any good in the world that has not been tainted?”

Quenyah scoffed. Perhaps it would have been for the best if she had let him hang. “You are an asshole.” She pulled up her leather gloves until they sat taut against her fingers and began to leave the stable, pausing at Blackwall’s worktable. She pushed up a pile of sawdust with her fingertip, tracing a circle. “And no, I really don’t think there is.”

It was possible that she had just made a mistake by vomiting the truth all over the stable, but it was a thought that she chose to let go. It was too late to regret the decision, and she did not think Blackwall was capable of any serious damage. In any case, she had wasted too much time that morning indulging in whatever emotional fancy caught her attention, and it was now time to speak with Master Dennet about horses for the Exalted Plains.

The thought that she could not shake, however, was that there was another person who deserved to hear the truth more than Blackwall. The knowledge that she could discuss her past so easily with someone who did not matter but struggled to speak with the person who mattered most now sat in the back of her mind, clamoring for her attention. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was so wrong. solas is definitely an aquarius. how could i be so blind


	15. masked

Quenyah pulled her blade from throat of a Revenant, moving quickly to the side to avoid the expected spray of thick black liquid, wincing as the demon let out one final sickening scream before dissipating into thousands of particles of demon material. The Inquisitor wiped her cheek in an attempt to get rid of whatever the equivalent of demon blood was from her skin. They must have ripped through a dozen demons and hundreds of undead that afternoon and they all had the stains to prove it; even Vivienne, who usually kept her clothes pristine by relying on long-range attacks, had incurred her share of unidentifiable stains.

From across the field Quenyah watched Cassandra knock back an undead soldier before striking the final blow, Sera pin another to a tree with a well placed arrow as Vivienne summoned a strike of lightning to finish the job, and Cole disappear in a cloud of smoke only to reappear behind another undead with intentions of catching Cassandra off guard and decapitate the reanimated skeleton. They worked well together, moved in sync, prepared to catch and fix others’ inevitable mistakes.

Fighting demons had become the most routine and simplest aspect of their excursions. There were no politics involved, no morality, no thinking. See demon--fight demon. Something about the Exalted Plains had turned that routine into an exhausting chore as possessed skeleton after possessed skeleton flooded the forts they had been sent to secure, somehow reminding Quenyah of the Dalish childhood duty of catching rats in the food stores.

The tornado of fire had merely been icing on the cake.

“That should be the last of them,” she said, running her blood-covered hand through her hair, frankly a little unsure of whether or not the blood was her own.

Sera groaned audibly as she pulled an arrow from a tree and redeposited it into her quiver. “Can’t stand this place.”

“Seconded.” Quenyah worked her way through piles of bones as she placed her blades back into their sheaths.

Cassandra appeared to be peeling off undead skin from her plated armor. “I cannot decide which was worse: the Fallow Mire or here.”

“The Plains are decidedly less... wet.” Vivienne shuddered in an apparent attempt at dispelling memories of the many consequences of wearing halla leather in a swamp.

Cole stood still, some meters away from the rest of the group, his eyes in a characteristic bug-eyed stare.

Quenyah placed her hand on his shoulder, though it was a considerable reach. “Are you alright, Cole?” He made no movement to break away from her touch but did not embrace it, either.

“There is so much pain in these places.”

“I know.” She exhaled. “I feel it, too.”

The Fallow Mire and the Dales felt equally haunted by unrest and agitated energy, but the emotions that still hung around the edges of the air in the Dales were personal, deeply personal to the Dalish Inquisitor. The Exalted Plains were particularly difficult to move through--as this landscape held the story, and the pain, of the People’s last stand. First Sylen’s voice floated unbidden through her thoughts: _As long as we continue to live, lethallan, our last stand is yet to come._

Cole turned to look at her. “First crush, first love, first kiss, first first First.” He tilted his head. “Was she right?”

“I don’t know. I think she was.” Quenyah gave Cole’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. It had been difficult at first, Cole picking up the threads of her thoughts and following them neatly to their heart, but now she had grown to expect it. “Let’s go. We need to let Celene’s soldiers know who exactly they should thank for their timely rescue.”

\------

Commander Jehan had warmly invited a small contingency of the Inquisition into the Citadelle after Quenyah nobly secured a delivery of rations that required only a few hours of travel from a camp deeper into the Orlesian countryside. The revelry happened later, unfolding naturally after the last box of rations was revealed to hold a half barrel of ale and several dozen bottles of wine. The fires were lit around the fort, Jehan’s troops restationed, and the front hall swept clean. Although the air outside was chill, Jehan commanded that the doors be left open, out of fear that lingered from the last time she had ordered the doors closed. It was an easy decision to accept the offer extended to the Inquisitor and her close companions to sleep in the Citadelle that night.

The main hall was abuzz with more activity than Celene’s soldiers had seen from the living in months. The stone walls were dimly lit by fires in braziers and candles placed along the tables, although the fine Orlesian masonry somehow amplified the light, a secret of architecture.

“I think Skyhold should have its own fire tornado. What do you think, Sera?”

Sera snorted into her ale. “You’re bonkers, Quizzy!” She said, stifling her laughter enough to take another drink from her mug.

“What, and jars of bees fall outside the realm of bonkers?”

“Well, bees aren’t magic, are they? Bees are nature things, not creepy whats-its.”

Quenyah laughed freely, loudly. “Well, I can’t deny that the logic is sound, even if your rationale is a little off.”

Vivienne and Cassandra sat near the other end of the long table, deep in conversation with Commander Jehan. Although the subject matter looked serious, Quenyah noted Vivienne’s regular attention to her mug of wine and Cassandra’s light and consistent laughter. The entire crew was in a pleasant mood, likely a result of a potent combination of extreme exhaustion and free alcohol. She kept tabs on Cole, too, who she had noted disappearing and reappearing throughout the evening, wandering away through the winding halls of the Citadelle and eventually finding his way back, listening intently to conversations and whispering in the ear of the soldier couple who had taken up post in the corner of the room around the same time the first bottle of wine had opened. Presently, Cole was leaning against a wall, the many faint sources of light in the room casting ghostly, flickering shadows behind him.

Quenyah swallowed a final mouthful of seasoned potatoes and excused herself from the table. She walked over to Cole and leaned against the wall next to him.

The brim of his oversized hat hid the features of his face. “It is much nicer in here.”

“Thank you for coming with me to the Exalted Plains, Cole. I know fighting isn’t always easy for you, but you are invaluable to us.”

“Fighting demons isn’t the hard part. They don’t belong here, and they only hurt when they try to make it work. You’re helping, and I’m helping you.”

Quenyah smiled and folded her arms over her chest. “We did good today, yeah?”

Cole nodded. “Yes. We did good.”

They fell into a silence as they examined the soldiers celebrating through the hall, thankful to feel fresh air move through the open windows, to eat fresh food, to feel fresh feelings. Cassandra and Jehan now were laughing louder, their plates clean and mugs empty. Vivienne had left the table and now leaned out one of the windows, mug of wine still in hand.

“The Rules make sense, they line my path, turn my hand. He was supposed to be another part of it, another line on my list. He saw me, made the lines blur, made everything real. ‘Would you care to dance?’ Young and scared, I took his hand.”

Quenyah sighed. “Cole, you know she doesn’t like when you dip into her head.”

“The Veil sings around her. It’s hard not to look.”

She wondered what Vivienne looked like to him. To everyone on this plane, she was lean, tall, muscled, intimidating, a marble statue in the center of a gallery. Well, almost everyone. Quenyah imagined that the man that Cole had just caught a glimpse of in her mind saw her rather differently. “At least she wasn’t in earshot this time.” Quenyah gathered herself. “I’m going to go talk to her. Have a good time tonight, okay, Cole?”

He nodded and wandered away, his form fading, flickering.

The Inquisitor walked along the edge of the hall, gathering her nerves in a bundle and trying to maintain control, a veneer of calm to match the one Vivienne always wore. Her interactions with the Enchanter had varied in confusing ways, leaving her unsure of their standing. In Haven, Vivienne practically ignored the Herald, but in Skyhold she treated the Inquisitor with cool dislike or condescending curiosity, like a teacher wondering what they had done to receive such a mess of a student. She inhaled before taking a position leaning over the window across from Vivienne. Neither one made a move to acknowledge the others’ presence.

“You smell terrible, Inquisitor,” Vivienne said, taking a sip of wine.

Quenyah smirked. “You smell like the undead, Vivienne.”

Vivienne let out a small, controlled laugh while examining the unusual stains that coated the sleeve of her robe. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

Laughter? Jokes? Perhaps it was the right time for this conversation.

Quenyah cleared her throat and looked out into the vast emptiness of the Plains, a great darkness in the night marked by the still burning orange embers of destroyed towns and homes.

“I wonder if it will ever be the same. This war has taken a great toll on Orlais.”

“Help me end it. Help me play the Game at the Winter Palace, so that the people of Orlais can begin to rebuild.”

“You? Perhaps I could do something with you if I had been given a year. I think it would be better to present a pig as a pig, rather than pretend you’ve changed it by giving it a fresh coat of lipstick.” Vivienne took another sip of wine. “It is sweet of you to think of me, though.”

Quenyah dug her nails into her palm in an effort to suppress the rage that was building inside of her chest as Vivienne’s opinion of her became suddenly clear. She turned to face the woman who had just insulted her. “Why do you despise me, Vivienne? It goes beyond you believing I am unfit for the job--you truly hate me. What is it? What have I done to you?”

Vivienne turned to examine the Inquisitor, now straightening to her full height. Her expression did not move, except for a small, nearly imperceptible twitch of her brow before she spoke. “I do not hate you, Inquisitor. I merely know who you are.”

“And what am I? A dirty Dalish child? A pretender?”

“No, dear. I know _who you are_. Let me speak in rather plainer terms, since you fail to catch the nuance: I know who you were in Starkhaven, in Kirkwall, in Wycome. I know what you’ve done and who you have done it for.”

The hot rage in her chest cooled, sank into an unsettling, icy fear. She had come into the conversation prepared to be angered, to be frustrated, to negotiate. She had not prepared for this. Quenyah turned back to the window and fought to keep her demeanor unchanged with only moderate success. Her voice was low, quiet, when she spoke. “What can I do to reassure you that part of my life will not become a problem for you?” That was the crux of the issue, wasn’t it? Vivienne had tied up her fate in the fate of the Inquisition without the knowledge that the Inquisitor was not entirely who she said she was.

Vivienne took another sip of wine and turned her gaze outside. “Tell me that Leliana has it under control.”

“She does.”

“Good.” She tapped her finger on the stone window sill. “Despite this one major failing, you have shown yourself to not be an entire waste of my time. If you want my help at Halamshiral, there is something you can do for me in the Exalted Plains.”

Quenyah felt a sense of defeat quell any interest in negotiation. “Fine. We can go over details in the morning.” Quenyah straightened, suddenly feeling the weight of the day sink onto her shoulders.

“Thank you for the pleasant conversation, Inquisitor.” Vivienne smiled as she set her glass down on the window sill. “Oh, and one more thing, dear. Who else knows about your little alter-ego? Your Solas?”

A cool breeze floated in through the window, ruffling Quenyah’s curls and tossing the flames in the braziers. Quenyah looked up at Vivienne, feeling almost too tired to be shocked.

“You thought I hadn’t noticed the lingering looks between you and our resident apostate?”

She did not have the energy to argue over the semantics of the term ‘apostate.’ “No, he doesn’t know. I’m going to bed.” Quenyah left feeling a dim sense of dread for Halamshiral and a new understanding of the many machinations of the Game. Her first taste of being outplayed and outmaneuvered so adeptly was acidic, but she made the decision to hold onto it, to let it motivate her and prepare her for what was to come.


	16. over

Josephine arranged for Quenyah to begin preparing for Halamshiral by taking lessons any time she was in Skyhold. They had secured a room off of the gardens for their meetings, an especially dilapidated rectangular space that must have been, at one time, something like a prayer room. Despite missing masonry in the corner, the the high vaulted ceiling amplified Maryden’s music and hushed their more private conversations. Leliana taught her how to pick up information from the nobles from the things they did and did not say and tested her on which ones were potential allies and which were likely enemies. Josephine taught her dances and every exhausting intricacy of Orlesian manners. Vivienne taught her how to play the Game. Despite initial misgivings and frequent mistakes, Quenyah gracefully allowed and embraced the tutelage.

The lessons were often tedious (especially Josephine’s), but the Inquisitor proved to be a quick study. By the end of the first week, she had mastered a few new dances, learned how to conceal and draw a weapon while wearing a dress, and memorized which fork to use while eating le Merveilleux, a dessert that appeared in every aspect to be a regular chocolate cake despite Josephine’s insistence that it was not. The Empress Celene loved le Merveilleux and it was a certainty that it would be offered at the ball. Quenyah committed this fact to memory while frankly not really understanding why any of it mattered to anyone.

Today, Vivienne tested her as they danced. Maryden played an Orlesian tune, stumbling a little over the more complex transitions, and Josephine watched from a bench in the corner of the room.

Quenyah was more than slightly shorter than her dance partner, but she had been scolded earlier to not let this phase her. _Remind yourself that you are the Inquisitor_ , said Leliana, _and that those around you are hanging on your every word_. Quenyah cleared her throat. “I wonder, Vivienne, which bird was it who sang my secrets to you?”

The corner of Vivienne’s lip turned up. “Which bird do you think it was, my dearest Inquisitor?” Her posture did not change, but Quenyah noted that the Enchanter often tensed as she prepared herself to spar.

Quenyah adjusted the position of her hand on the mage’s back, aware of Josephine’s critical eye. “I have given it a lot of thought, though the answer I have come up with seems impossible.”

Vivienne tilted her head. “Mmm. If you say it is impossible, then it must be so.”

In truth, the exchange was already boring her. She had tried to take Vivienne’s poetic description of the Game to heart (“It is a battle, dear, but instead of a blade you use words to cut down your opponent”), but if it was a battle, it was a painfully slow one.

“Well, I thought it would be impossible that you would stoop to speaking with Thom Rainier to get your information, but it seems the only possibility.”

Vivienne laughed, apparently delighted. “You can hardly blame me for it, darling. Perhaps you should pick a better confidant in the future--maybe one who does not choose to live in a barn.”

The pair fell apart and then lay their palms against each other, walking in time with the music in a straight line.

“There is something else, Madame de Fer.”

“What is it, Inquisitor? I can hardly wait to hear.”

“Do you remember the first time we met?”

“How could I forget?”

Quenyah smiled. “I remember it well, too. Your guest insulted me, and you handled it honorably, allowing me to decide whether he should live or die for the slight.”

Vivienne threaded her fingers between the Inquisitor’s, drawing her back in. “I hoped it could inspire friendship between us.”

The music changed themes, and the two drew closer, Quenyah placing her hand on the small of Vivienne’s back. “Did you expect me not know that you deliberately arranged it so that your guest would insult me? Did you assume I would not know the slight he was truly under judgment for was a slight against you, and not me?” Quenyah pulled Vivienne in at the waist and dipped her, bending over her, now speaking into her ear. “Next time we play, I hope it can be for the same team.” She smiled again and stood, bowing after releasing and backing away from her partner.

If Quenyah did not know better, she would have thought that Vivienne was blushing. The Enchanter suddenly laughed, unrestrained and full, true delight allowing it to echo in the small stone room. “Very well done, Lavellan!” Vivienne placed two light kisses on the Inquisitor’s cheeks and clasped her hands. “I’m impressed with my work. Apparently I am a better teacher than I realized.”

Quenyah joined in her laughter, accepting the muted compliment graciously with the understanding that waiting for a true compliment from Vivienne would not be a fruitful endeavor. “Are we done here, then? Do I win the Game?” She turned to Josephine, who was walking towards the pair.

Josephine swept an errant lock of black hair back behind her ear and smoothed her blouse. “Can you tell me the name of Marquise du Rellion’s only brother in law?”

“Is it... Frank?”

Josephine touched her shoulder. “There is still work to be done, Inquisitor, though you have shown strong signs of progress.”

The sound of the door opening startled all three of them.

“Am I interrupting?” Solas said, clasping his hands behind his back as he stood in the doorway. Quenyah felt her heart swell.

Josephine smiled. “Not at all, Solas. We were just finishing for the evening.”

Vivienne, Josephine, and Maryden departed, leaving their small lesson room seem rather empty and quiet in their absence.

He took a seat in the middle of the couch Josephine was just perched on, leaning forward, elbows on his thighs and chin resting on his hand. “You have become content in your role.” It was not made apparent whether he was asking a question or making an observation. He seemed to be looking at the curving lines of the ivy that grew around the statue on the west wall.

Quenyah took a seat next to him, gathering her legs onto the couch and tucking them under her. “Of course I spend much of my time as Inquisitor worrying about the future--but I will admit that there are times I feel genuinely happy in Skyhold.” She ran her finger along the delicate sewn detailing of her pants. “Is that strange? Should I be in a worse mood, do you think?”

“No, it isn’t strange. In many ways, these will be the easiest days for the Inquisition.”

“What, the fate of all of Thedas is not a large enough threat for you? There is something worse coming for us?”

Solas did not smile but leaned back, bringing one leg up to the couch to turn to her. “This threat has given the Inquisition a place and a purpose. Orlais and Ferelden willingly hand over their power in exchange for stability and a promise that you will win. When you defeat Corypheus--”

“-- _if_ \--”

“When you defeat Corypheus, what will you do with the Inquisition? What becomes of your soldiers, your castle, your voice?”

Quenyah narrowed her eyes. It was a subject that she considered frequently, but now pressed she found she still did not have a sure answer. It would be naive to believe that the elite in the countries they now occupied would allow them to rest on their laurels for very long. Gratitude was not an everlasting currency. “We will adapt. We will keep changing. We will still have a voice.” She tapped her knee. “The Inquisition does not have to remain a military organization.”

“Ah, a voice with no teeth? I am sure that the nobility of Thedas will find that very threatening.”

“Maybe we won’t rule with threats anymore. We’ll find another way.”

“For how long?” His voice was low and louder than usual and he reached out to grab her hand, the one that was marked, and turned her palm so that it faced the sky. “And for how long can you maintain this?” The energy sealed in her palm reacted as if in response, spitting crackling green bursts of light. Solas considered her hand with furrowed brows and tight lips, the light of the mark dramatizing his expression.

“I don’t know. Solas, I don’t know.” She pulled back her hand from his grasp and lay her hand down on her knee, palm facing down.

“I have seen too many great organizations with honest intentions fall due to their arrogance. Do not let yours become one of them.”

 _Then stay with me,_ she thought, but did not say it. “When have you seen other organizations fall?”

“I...” He looked startled for a moment. “In the Fade, of course.” His voice was quick, almost admonishing.

“Why are you angry with me?”

“I am not angry with you, Lavellan.”

 _You are_ , she thought, but did not say this one either. “I cannot predict the answers to problems that have not yet arisen. I don’t pretend to know the future of the Inquisition, and I have never believed that what we have here could last forever.” No, if anything, she was frequently reminded that what they built was always balancing on unstable ground. “All I can do is focus on the present and savor the quiet moments I have been given.”

They were quiet. Outside, evening began to fall. The birds sang their final songs and the crickets prepared themselves to take over the duty. The moon already hung high in the dusky sky.

Quenyah had not stopped staring at the man who sat in front of her. “Solas, who are you?”

He did not return her stare. “Quenyah--”

It was the first time she had heard him speak her first name aloud, but she did not allow it to startle her. “You don’t have to answer now. I just want you to know that I want to know, and that I will wait for you. I will wait until you are ready to tell me, until you trust me to keep loving you after it’s been said.” She took hold of his hand. “ _Ar lath ma_ , Solas. I love you.” She brought his hand to her lips and pressed them against her fingers, lowering her eyes.

The light was dim in the room, now, but she could see that his eyes were wide. He tried to say something--”I...”--then stopped, closing his mouth and lowering his eyes to the floor. He tried again. “You are too kind to me.”

She lowered his hand but continued to grasp it. “You deserve it.” She could feel how warm his skin was.

He suddenly laughed, surprising them both, and turned to face her. “You are very good at making me lose my resolve.”

Quenyah grinned back at him. “Good. Then you’ll stay with me a little longer. I need to ask something of you.”

Solas leaned over the couch and reached out to cup her face, tracing her jawline with his forefinger. He kissed her, and outside the birds quieted. “ _Ma nuvenin, ma’vhenan._ ” As you wish, my heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really couldn't tell you why, but i'm always attracted to the love interests that have no knowledge of or interest in love, like isabela, zevran, and solas. maybe it's because all of them need to take time and move slowly in a relationship, and i'm the same way. though it might just be because i think it's so good when someone who is so resistant to the idea of love falls into it anyways. love can be a little intoxicating and inescapable.
> 
> something else i've been thinking about saying and i guess i may as well go ahead and say is that i've been writing this stupid thing for a very long time, and i'm finally close to the end of it. it could be over in something like 6 or 7 chapters. i have changed a lot between the time i began writing about quenyah to this moment, so recently i went back and heavily edited a large amount of the fic, hopefully improving it & not making it worse. 
> 
> if you've been reading this, please let me know! i'm going to finish it regardless, because it is a story that has become weirdly important to me, but i would love to talk about it.


	17. under

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They meet in the Fade.

A young elven girl sits in the snow, wearing a coat made of soft, white fennec fur, crouching over a form he can’t quite make out. The snow falls around her, stuttering, changing speed and direction unnaturally, filling in the foot steps he leaves behind just as quickly as he makes them. There is no sun, no sky, just white, white snow, the little girl, and Solas.

The girl notices him and stands up to face him. She widens her stance, blocking him from seeing whatever it was she was hiding. “You made it,” she says, relieved to see him. “It’s time to go.” Her breath is a white puff of air. Her hair is a sudden shock of red in the field of white, lighter and curled tighter than it is now. No gold vallaslin marks her face. The girl reaches out to him, trying to take his hand.

He pauses. “What is it you have behind you?”

Her face falls and she steps aside and turns around again. Solas takes a step forward and suddenly he is beside her, crouching in the snow, and a white rabbit lies in front of them. The rabbit is breathing quickly, eyes unfocused.

Blood seeps from a wound in the rabbit’s side, melting and staining the snow around them. The red of the blood is so vivid it hurts to look at it--it is a thousand different tones and shades of red all at once. There is so much blood it seems impossible that the creature is still alive.

A tear falls from the girl’s face into the pool of blood. “I can’t make it stop.” She presses her hand against the wound and the blood only moves around it. “I don’t know how to make it stop.” The rabbit’s long ears twitch rapidly, stuttering like the snow. The girl removes her hand and it is covered in the vivid red blood. She wipes it on her white fur coat, staining it.

They stare at the rabbit for a beat longer. “We should go.” She offers him her unstained hand and he takes it.

Solas walks with her but takes one last look behind them as the world begins to fall away, piece by piece, as if it is laid out on a grid. The white rabbit still breathes and the pool of blood seems to grow ever larger. In time, even the rabbit falls away.

He can feel a change in the air, a sudden pressure on his skin.

The girl grips his hand. “Close your eyes for a second.”

He does, and when he opens them, they are somewhere new, somewhere warm. The scene is mostly pleasant: they are inside of a home, an elven woman stands by the fireplace as she stirs a pot of soup, everything smells like spices and wood smoke. The little elven girl who has become his guide sits on a stool near the doorway on top of a thick, winter coat. “I left my clan a year after my brother died,” the little girl says. She still wears the fennec fur coat smeared with the red blood of the rabbit. In the corner of the room, Quenyah sits at a wooden table and looks around the room. She seems younger, thinner, more nervous, and her posture is tense. Solas can sense something is wrong.

“At first I didn’t know that the elves in the alienages would resent the Dalish. I thought we were heroes to them.” Solas moves across the room to stand next to the little girl. She looks up at him. “The woman knows I know how to fight. She is going to ask me to kill the alienage’s landlord and I’m going to refuse.” The characters in the scene begin to talk to each other but he cannot hear their voices, only the bubbling of the stew and the crackling of the fire. He looks out of a glass paned window and sees that it is snowing outside, the flakes of snow still stuttering and shifting. Quenyah is offered a bowl, she takes it and begins eating quickly, shoveling spoonful after spoonful into her mouth. The older elven woman laughs.

“Why do you refuse her?”

“I don’t want to think of myself as the type of person who would kill for money.” The little girl laughs a tiny, twinkling laugh. “I will change my mind later and do it anyway.”

Solas examines the younger Quenyah as she stops eating, apparently shocked by something the woman has just said. Her hair is cut close to her scalp with only a few inches of growth, small red ringlets curling around her ears. “Why do you change your mind?”

The little elf girl takes hold of his hand again and the scene changes abruptly and they are somewhere else, the home in the alienage gone completely. Solas inhales, momentarily jarred by the sudden change.

It is the middle of the night. They are now huddled in an alley off of a main square in a city, likely one of the cities in the Free Marches. The city square is mostly nondescript, a cluster of beautiful homes and buildings, a city hall, a Chantry. There are a group of lanterns lit around the outside of a large building with high ceilings, and he can see through a tall window that it is lit inside by a sparkling crystal chandelier and dozens of torches. Groups of finely dressed men and women huddle outside of the building to wait for their carriages, drawing their coats closer to their chests as the snow continues to fall.

There is a sudden shout in the distance and a figure breaks away from the group, dashing across the square. Guards begin to chase after the figure, the light from the lanterns glinting off of their silver chestplates. Even from so far away Solas can tell from his ears that the running boy is elven, and very young.

“Stop! Thief!” The call from the guard sounds so loud it seems like it comes from right next to him, but Solas and the little girl are still hidden in the alley some distance away. Another figure dashes out from the opposite end of the square and he can tell this one is Quenyah, her long limbs smaller than he knows them, but he recognizes her quick and steady movements as she runs.

An arrow flies, a silver streak in the moonlight, and catches the boy in mid-run. The momentum tosses him to the ground, skidding and pushing the snow as he falls.

The little elven girl grabs his hand and then they are crouched over the boy in the middle of the square, the soles of their feet sitting in bloody snow. The older Quenyah joins them, out of breath she reaches for the boy’s neck to check for a pulse, touches the arrow that now protrudes from his chest. She looks up at the guards. “What have you done?” Even her voice is younger than he knows it, higher pitched and still slightly teenaged.

The little girl examines the boy. “I can’t take the arrow out here because it is the only thing stopping him from bleeding too much. He is going to die.”

Solas looks away from Quenyah for the first time to look at the boy in front of him. His blood flows from his wound into the snow. “The boy... is he the rabbit we saw earlier?”

The little girl shakes her head. “No. The boy is just a boy, but the rabbit is the boy. The rabbit is my brother. The rabbit is... everyone. It’s all of them.” She looks up at Solas. “D’you know what I mean?”

Solas reaches out to touch the dying boy. He has a scar on his chin that warps the edge of his bottom lip. “I think I understand.” The boy is struggling to breathe and blood spills from his mouth, painting his teeth red. He gurgles and appears to look straight into Solas’ eyes.

The world changes again and the boy is gone and Solas is staring at the floorboards of the woman’s home in the alienage. He stands up and in front of him the older woman is handing Quenyah a blade, sharp and shining in the glow of the fireplace. Quenyah takes it and slices through the air to feel its weight and balance. She speaks and this time Solas can hear her. “You asked me for my name earlier. It is Harellan.”

The scene around them fades to shades of grey and then begins to disappear completely until Solas, the little girl, and Quenyah are the only ones left in a field of black. A light shines on Quenyah as if she is the star of a stage play, and Solas watches from the audience. The woman he knows as the Inquisitor takes the blade in her hand and poses it in front of her as if she is about to draw it across a neck.

A person appears between Quenyah and her blade.

“The landlord.” The little girl narrates the scene for Solas.

Quenyah opens his throat cleanly. The landlord is replaced by a man in a silver chestplate.

“The guard who killed the rabbit-boy.”

Quenyah inserts the blade between the guard’s ribs and removes it, spraying blood out into the black nothing. A woman in a dress replaces the man.

“She did bad things to servants.”

The woman drinks from a crystal cup and drops to the floor as Quenyah watches, momentarily shadowed in the background. Another woman appears.

“A slaver from Tevinter.”

Quenyah grabs the woman’s shoulder and then pushes her blade into her chest.

The rest of them happen rapidly, too quickly for the little girl to name them all. Quenyah dances around the stage as she paints it with a cacophony of blood. Solas momentarily looks away. “Do you remember all of them?”

The girl shrugs. “No, but I remember how many there were.”

After some time the dance is finally done and Quenyah stands in the spotlight, breathing heavily, drops of blood falling from the tip of her blade. She looks up into the light and shields her eyes from it with her forearm, still catching her breath. It appears that she is waiting for the light to dim, for the next act to begin. There is a sound like white noise that fills the blackness and as it grows louder, clearer, Solas can tell that it is the sound of pages being turned rapidly in a book. Weathered sheets of paper, brown and wrinkled, fall from the skyless sky--there is so many of them that he can no longer see anything else. Solas picks up one of the sheets of paper. On it is a sketch Quenyah's face, the details of her vallaslin wrong, her nose much too small, eyes too large, but it is her. Printed in thick black letters underneath her picture is 'HARELLAN.'

The little girl grabs Solas’ hand again and he looks up from the paper. The white noise is gone and there is nothing but black. “We’re almost at the end, now.” They walk past the Quenyah with short hair, who is still staring into the sky and covered in blood, to a black velvet curtain that had not been there only a moment before. The little girl pulls back the curtain and they enter another room, this one made out of wood and lined with stacks of books. The air smells sweet, like someone has been burning incense.

There are voices coming from the other side of the wall. One of the voices sounds familiar, almost like...

“Take care of yourself, Daisy.” Varric. The front door opens and sounds from outside filter in. It sounds like rain. “And let me know if you hear anything.” Varric closes the door and the pitter-patter of the rain is muffled again, but now footsteps on creaking floorboards approach the room.

Solas turns and sees Quenyah, a little older, her hair a little longer, sitting cross-legged under a towering, fragmented mirror. He looks to the little girl. “Where are we?”

“Kirkwall,” she says. She is staring up at the mirror, too.

“What is an eluvian doing in Kirkwall?”

The door to the room opens as if in answer, and a young Dalish elf with intricate green vallaslin walks into the room, her black hair twisted into braids, a bandage wrapped around her wrist. She carries a cup of tea. Even in a dream, Solas can feel airy magic flow around her.

Quenyah looks away from the mirror and takes the cup from the Dalish woman, standing up. She places one palm on the glass in front of her, testing it. “What did you call this, again, Merrill?”

“It’s an eluvian.”

“It’s beautiful,” says Quenyah, and she is right. Even fractured, held together with a mess of vines and weak magic, it looks beautiful. Solas stands next to Quenyah to examine it.

Merrill sets down her cup of tea on one of the towering stacks of books. “Listen, Quenyah,” her voice high, delicately approaching a subject she does not want to discuss. “It has been lovely having you here.”

Quenyah turns from the eluvian and smiles a little. “I’m not deaf, Merrill. I know your friend is looking for me.”

“Well, you did kill someone, and Aveline is Captain of the Guard, so it is sort of her job to look for you, and I’m not going to tell her where you are but I also can’t keep you here--”

“That _someone_ deserved what happened to him.”

“And I agree with you!” Merrill says, hands out in a placating gesture. “It’s just that Aveline doesn’t really like the whole ‘death without a trial’ thing, she keeps warning Hawke about it, and she doesn’t trust you like she trusts Hawke.”

Quenyah is already grabbing her things, though she does not have very many of them. She slips her blade into her boots and puts her pack on, taking one final sip of warm tea. “It’s fine, lethallan.” They move to the other room and Quenyah grabs a tattered scarf from a hook by the door, winding it around her neck. “Kirkwall is a gods forsaken mess, anyway.”

Quenyah reaches for the doorknob but Merrill grabs it before her. “Go back to Clan Lavellan, Quenyah. They are your family.”

“I can’t return to my clan any more than you can return to yours.” Quenyah stares at the ground.

Merrill shakes her head, eyes wide. “No. Our situations are very different, lethallan. I know they will be happy to have you return.”

Quenyah adjusts the pack on her back and takes the doorknob from Merrill, opening the door, staring up at the rain. “You have been very kind to me, Merrill, but don’t presume to know my situation." Beyond the door, Solas can only see blackness. "Sule tael tasalal, ma’falon.”

Merrill appears to want to say something, but doesn’t. She lets go of the door and watches as Quenyah leaves. “Dareth shiral, da'mi.”

The little girl takes Solas’ hand again. Her eyes are wide, sad. “Merrill was right. I should have listened to her that day. I should have gone back.” The Kirkwall scene stutters, fades, falls away. Solas closes his eyes.

When he opens them, they are in a forest. Shaped logs are arranged around a warm fire, sounds from a blacksmith striking metal ring out between the trees, and the smell of a leather tanner’s oils drifts faintly through the camp. Small elven children follow behind a woman as she reads from a book, winding their way through a line of red canvas aravels. “If you didn’t go back, where are we?” Solas asks, turning around.

The little girl is no longer there. Quenyah, his Quenyah, the Quenyah with a missing piece of her ear, sits on one of the logs in front of the fire, holding her hands out to the warmth. “There’s no reason for me to watch what happens next. I let myself have this, here, knowing that I can’t have it out there.”

Solas takes a seat next to her. He notices that there is a heavy black curtain hung between two trees behind them, and he notices that Quenyah takes care not to look at it. “If you cannot confront your past, how do you expect to move forward?”

Quenyah shakes her head. “I didn’t bring you here to help me confront my past.”

“Then why did you bring me here?”

“I was trying to think of a way to show you who I am. I thought that dreams would be a format you would understand best.”

She did this for him, not for herself. “What is behind the curtain, Quenyah?”

She inhales slowly. “At one point in my life I thought all I was good for was killing. I was really, really good at it. I thought it was what I was. A killer. When I returned to the Dalish, I thought that only they could keep me from my true nature, that this was the only other option besides the life I was living.” She looked around at the camp, then up at the bits of blue sky that peeked in between the tops of trees. “The Inquisition gave me a third option. Becoming the Inquisitor allowed me to use what I am to effect real change.” She looks back down at the ground. “I don’t have time to take a week off, work through what happened to me in the past. There are too many people who rely on me.”

Solas takes her hand and she looks at him. “What do you need from me?” He has made a habit of asking her this, and she knows that there is an unspoken immediacy in the phrase. 'What can I do for you  _now_? How can I help you, for as long as I am here?'

Her expression softens as she examines him. “I just need you to be there.” Her voice lowers to a whisper. “Not forever. Just be there while you can.”

He presses his forehead to hers. “Ar'esayan sul amas.”

\----

In time, he does not know exactly how long it is, everything slips away and they both fall into dreamless sleep. He wakes in the morning next to her in her bed, and watches the rise and fall of her chest, her tanned breasts awash in the glow of the early morning sun.

She awakens only a few minutes after he does, and they spend a few silent moments staring at each other as the world around them wakes up with them. A bird sings his song on her balcony and takes off in a flutter of wings. Solas positions himself over her and kisses her along the center of her chest, stopping as he reaches her hips. Quenyah reaches up and cups the back of his neck, sitting up as she pulls him towards her and places a kiss on the top of his head. He looks up and he kisses her, pushing her back down into the pillows.

He feels in between her legs. “Is this okay?” He says, and she smiles.

“Yes.”

He lays on top of her, his temple to her temple, as he enters her for the first time. “ _Ar lath ma_ ,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sule tael tasalal, ma’falon. - Until we see each other next, my friend.  
> Dareth shiral, da'mi. - Safe journey, little blade.  
> Ar'esayan sul amas - I will try for you.


	18. interlude

The Inquisitor was in love and there were few in Skyhold who did not take notice of it. If they did not see it in her interactions with Solas, it was obvious in her smile, her blush, the dreamy way she watched him as he painted in the rotunda. Although she still kept odd hours and slept with unusual infrequency, Inquisitor Lavellan seemed to float through the halls, buoyant from the intoxication of a new love.

Visiting nobles whispered to each other in the main hall -- “Did you hear?” “ _Our_ Inquisitor? Are you sure?” “It’s all anyone can talk about.” -- barely able to contain their gossip even as Quenyah passed by them.

The previous week, as she sat in the library, falling deep into the pull of Corypheus research with Dorian, she suddenly started and gasped, looking up from her monograph. “What is it? Did you find something useful?” Dorian asked, peering over at the text open in front of her.

Quenyah blushed. “No! I just... I just remembered how much I like him.” She buried her face in her hands, trying to hide the creeping rosy color on her cheeks. “Oh, Dorian, what am I going to do?”

Dorian rubbed his eyes with his finger and thumb and exhaled slowly, placing his hand on Quenyah’s back. “Just remind yourself that the enormous god-like thing that wants to kill you is still out there plotting the demise of Thedas, despite your having thrown a mountain on top of him.”

Quenyah peered out at him between her fingers. “Thanks.” She pushed back her curls from her face and resumed staring at the book in front of her. “That actually helped.”

She was not the only one who had changed in demeanor, though the differences in Solas were more nuanced, harder to see with an undiscerning eye. He conversed easier with the Inquisitor’s companions, smiled more often, laughed even once or twice at Sera’s crude jokes.

On an afternoon covered in grey clouds and rippling with threatening storm winds, Solas walked through the courtyard of the Inquisitor’s castle with Cole, discussing Cole’s discoveries in Skyhold, the ways in which he healed hurts, softened blows. Solas, in the midst of a question, caught sight of the Inquisitor as she returned to the castle. She was walking on the stone bridge that led to Skyhold’s gate, holding a string of small animal carcasses and a canvas bag at her side. Solas paused.

Cole tipped his head and looked up into the heavy clouds. “She dances, darts, heavy heart but colors that colors envy.”

Upon seeing him, Quenyah’s face broke into a grin. “Solas!” She called, letting her quarry brush the ground as she entered the gate.

He nodded in her direction. “Inquisitor,” a wind whipped through the grassy courtyard, muffling his words. “I worried you would not return from your hunt before the storm.”

She stood in front of him, then looked around at the mostly emptied courtyard, seemed to decide against a more obvious display of affection. “Well, I have.” Quenyah pulled at the bag that hung at her hip. Solas now saw that it was stained with the juice of blackberries. “I brought you something.” She held out the bag and he placed his palm underneath it, accepting it from her. “I thought they were the right color for your mural. I could turn them into paints for you.”

Solas gave her a small smile. “Thank you, vhenan.”

Cole looked at them from a distance, now perched on the stone wall that separated the two sections of Skyhold’s courtyard. “It makes them happy, but they shouldn’t.” He rested his chin on his knee, leaning forward to watch their exchange. “Why not?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short & light chapter before shit starts hitting the fan


	19. inside

Vivienne and Leliana collaborated on the Inquisitor’s image for Halamshiral. The Make Quenyah Pretty Committee (as the Inquisitor had begun to think of it) originally included Josephine, but she was encouraged to bow out after Leliana complained she did not understand deadly fashion--that is, how to dress a warrior.

Leliana chose the dress: strategically draped emerald velvet, gathered beneath her breasts and tied around a golden metal choker at her neck. The dress was designed to be easily removable, revealing underneath a collection of small knives and Quenyah’s blades sheathed around her hips and a black suit tight to her skin, covering her up to her neck and wrapping around the soles of her feet. She wore no shoes.

Vivienne would not reveal what she had chosen for Quenyah to wear as a mask until the morning before the Ball in Grand Duke Gaspard’s home, as servants draped golden bracelets on the Inquisitor’s wrist and pinned her hair. Vivienne sat across from her in the marble room, the jar of gold flakes in her hand illuminated by light that fell through the space between red velvet drapes.

“Vivienne, this woman told me that I needed to shave my legs for the ball! Is this true?” The servant in question took hold of the Inquisitor’s arm and began rubbing perfumed cream into her skin. Vivienne was apparently too busy positioning her hat to notice. “What did you bring?” Quenyah asked, turning her head. One of the servants gently positioned her head forward again, pulling a pin from between her lips and placing it in Quenyah’s hair.

Vivienne set the jar on the vanity and studied her own reflection in the mirror. “I must have looked through dozens of masks in Val Royeaux before I realized how obtuse I was being.” Vivienne drew a finger along her jaw. She turned back to Quenyah and tilted her head. “You already have a mask, darling. It just needs a little... glamor.”

Quenyah furrowed her brows. “Are you referring to my vallaslin?”

“Is that what you call your tattoos?”

It was too early in the day to begin collecting irritations, so she chose not to not take Vivienne’s ignorance personally. “Yes.”

Vivienne picked the jar up off of the table and walked towards Quenyah, who still stood poised in the middle of the room. “Then yes, your vallaslin.” Despite apparently having just learned the word, Vivienne pronounced it effortlessly. “They will go wonderfully with the color of your dress.”

The Inquisitor drew her hand to her forehead, rubbing the skin between her brows. “My tattoos aren’t... they aren’t really a fashion statement.”

“Inquisitor, what did you promise me when I agreed to help you?”

Her own words flashed in her mind, something to the effect of, ‘I will let you do anything you want,’ a statement which she now desperately regretted. “Okay, yes, but--”

“When I was first introduced to society, I brought my staff with me to every ball, every event, held it poised as Orlesian society watched and decided whether or not I deserved their attention. It served the same purpose as your...” She hesitated for only a moment. “Vallaslin. No one will ever let me forget that I am a mage. It would be foolish to pretend I am otherwise. Instead, I have chosen to remind them that I have power they could never have.”

“I’m not a mage. I don’t have that power either.”

“No, Inquisitor. I am powerful because I am the other, and I do not shrink from it. I was not born into their society and yet I am still the most fascinating, beautiful, and deadly person in the room. The thought terrifies them.” She opened the jar in her palm, dipping a small brush into the swirling gold and placing it delicately against Quenyah’s skin. “You will terrify them.” She drew the brush down Quenyah’s cheek in one smooth movement, following the curving lines of June into the top of her lip. “You will find they are easier to seduce while frightened.”

* * *

 

The Winter Palace was a storm. The high ceilings and sparkling chandeliers dazzled, a glamor almost blinding enough to cause one to forget they had just stumbled upon a room painted with the blood of dead elven servants. The guests moved with an elegance that concealed cool machinations, cruelty balancing on the edge of a sharp tongue. It was thunder, rain, snow, it was a symphony of a thousand blades, both metaphorical and literal.

There were quiet moments, stolen when the rain paused. Vivienne’s subtle touch on her elbow as they talked, a small symbol of affection, teasing Cullen for being so remarkably dashing, taking a shot of something blue and biting with Dorian, listening to Leliana’s delight as she gossiped about the color of a Duke’s shoes.

The Red Jenny and her people were on the Inquisitor’s side that evening. Sera had earlier taken great joy in accidentally dropping a candle on a guest’s skirt, momentarily setting it aflame. It had provided enough of a distraction for Quenyah to steal the keys to the Trophy Room from the belt of a palace guard as he tried, in vain, to stamp out the steadily growing flames.

The Inquisitor attempted to avoid Solas, as he seemed determined to keep up his disguise as the “Lady Inquisitor’s Elven Servant” for the entire night. She allowed herself one brief meeting after one of her actual servants had removed all traces of Venatori blood from her skin and hair, pulling him to the end of an empty corridor, attempting to hide themselves behind one of the many large, marble statues.

“Are you enjoying the Winter Palace, Solas?” Quenyah said, playing with one of the buttons on his jacket.

“I do adore the heady blend of power, intrigue, and sex that permeates these events.”

Quenyah gave him a quizzical look. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were a little drunk.”

Solas smiled. “The servants have been happy to refill my glass.” He took hold of her hand then gently pushed her against the wall, leaning over her, pressing his forehead to her own. “You are glowing, vhenan.”

She felt suddenly short of breath. “It was Gaspard’s servants--I’ve never worn so much jewelry in my life--did you know Orlesians sha--”

Solas placed a finger on her lips, tracing their shape. “It’s more than that.” He kissed her, cupping the edge of her jaw, fingers probing into her carefully pinned hair. She felt her back arch, her bare shoulders press into the cool wall. “You are playing a beautiful Game, Quenyah.”

There was a cough to the right of them. Solas withdrew, reacting more quickly than Quenyah.

“Inquisitor,” came the voice. Quenyah smoothed an errant curl behind her ear and peered out from behind the marble statue.

“Yes?”

“Red Jenny has a delivery for you.” It was one of the palace’s elven servants, holding a necklace in the palm of her hand.

Quenyah took the necklace, dangling it out in front of her. She recognized the design. Her own mother had worn one, a gift from her father before they were wed. “It’s elven. Where did you find it?”

“With Celene’s things. I think it might be Briala’s.”

The Inquisitor cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, this is good. This is exactly what I was looking for.” She pocketed it and looked back at the servant. “What did you say your name was?”

“Lyla, Lady Inquisitor.”

She would have preferred it without the honorific, but it was not the time to become irritated by relatively inconsequential annoyances. “Lyla, you’ve done very well. Let’s go back to the ball.” Quenyah hooked her arm around Lyla’s and pulled her away, giving one final look behind her. Solas was gazing out one of the palace’s many large windows, one arm poised behind his back, the other holding a glass of wine.

She had never seen him like this before. At least for the moment he appeared unburdened, the cool guard he constantly wore had suddenly fallen away. The contrast was enough for her to want more than just a taste of it.

* * *

 

As far as she could tell, the rest of the ball went as smoothly as it possibly could. She had questioned it in the beginning, but perhaps having a party instead of holding a somber diplomatic meeting was the right way to go about having a peace talk. Perhaps she had misjudged the Orlesians. They certainly got things done with style.

The Inquisitor had danced with the Duchess, exposed her to the court, blackmailed more than a dozen courtiers, and somehow reunited Briala and Celene in the midst of a storm. The Grand Duke was slated to be executed, and it looked as if the Duchess would follow him shortly. The night had gone on so long it was now approaching day, the sky a cool, morning blue still stuck with pinpricks of sparkling stars. A fog hung low in the palace’s gardens.

Quenyah admired her handiwork as she looked out over the ballroom, taking a brief moment to congratulate herself. She took a glass of wine from the tray of a passing servant and turned around, intending to debrief with Leliana and Josephine, who were already talking together in the corner of the ballroom’s upper level. She found herself face to face with a courtier wearing a full porcelain mask, a thin black mustache painted on the white surface. Those masks were her least favorite kind. What sort of person had so much to hide that they had to cover their face in porcelain?

“Excuse me,” she said, bowing slightly as she tried to move around him. The courtier did not move.

“You’ve changed so much, mon petite Harellan.” His accent was a roughened Orlesian, like a man who had spent a significant amount of time in the Free Marches. Quenyah recognized it immediately. “You have not forgotten me, have you?” The courtier stepped closer to her and pulled down his ruffled collar to expose his neck. “Perhaps this will remind you.” A pale, gnarled scar tore through the center of his neck, likely the result of a wound healed poorly by an unpracticed mage.

“That’s not possible,” She said. _I killed you_. Her heart thumped in her chest, sweat gathered on her brow.

She imagined that he must have been smiling behind the mask. “I suppose it is only fair. A scar for a scar.”

Quenyah instinctively reached up to feel the warped edges of her ear, as if to check that the rest of it was indeed still missing. “What do you want?” She hissed. “Why are you here?” It was unfair. All night she had been tested and antagonized by men and women who sought to hurt her and had somehow remained calm, unphased. A man from her past shows her his scar and she is suddenly without words, a startled kitten.

The courtier adjusted his suit, laying the starched ruffles around his neck back into place. “I want back into Orlais, my pet.”

“ _I am not your pet any longer_.”

“Ah, there is the Harellan I remember.” He cocked his head and she stopped herself from reacting again, suddenly aware that she was still in the Winter Palace, that she was not five years younger, a stray dog wandering the streets of Wycome. She took a deep breath.

She was the Inquisitor. “Make it quick, Thibideaux.”

“You have become quite close with the Empress tonight. Yes, the Inquisitor has gained many allies in Orlais by ending the war.”

“Get to the point.”

“You’re no fun, but I’ll bite. Make a request to Celene for an old friend, yes? Get me back into the Orlesian court.” He pulled on his sleeve, swiping at a wrinkle. “I have grown tired of Wycome. Do this, and you will never hear from me again.”

“I’m certain you have a reason why I can’t just kill you.”

He laughed. Stupid, hateful laugh. “Of course. I am paying a man very handsomely to keep quiet about our shared past. If I were to die, there would be nothing stopping him from spreading it from Wycome to Val Royeaux.”

Quenyah dug her nails into her palm and the anchor reacted, jolting her with sudden pain as it twisted inside of her. “I’ll do what you ask, but I don’t want to see you again.” She finished the glass of wine in her hand. “If I ever even have to hear your name again, I will ruin you.” She set the glass down and moved away, intending on finding another source of alcohol.

The man grabbed her arm as she passed him, pulling her close to him and speaking into her ear. “You may have all of Orlais fooled, but I know what you really are.”

“And what is that?” She spat, watching as a servant walked towards them with a tray of drinks.

“A killer.”

She pulled her arm free from his grasp and walked away, grabbing two shots of whatever blue drink she and Dorian had earlier from the passing tray, and quickly took the stairs two at a time. She was in sudden and desperate need of fresh air.

As she walked along the upper floor of the ballroom she downed one of the shots, winced, and placed it on one of the tables. She avoided Cullen as he shot her a worried glance and emptied another shot while deliberately walking around Josephine and Leliana. Her dress trailed behind her, still stained with the splatters of blood her servants could not remove.

Cold air rushed past her as she opened the door to the balcony and she inhaled, letting the fresh air chill her lungs as the riot of alcohol she had just drank warmed her chest. The sunrise edged the horizon, pale pink threatening to overcome the navy of the night. The sounds of the ballroom floated out into the balcony, the band’s music curling under the constant buzz of Court chatter. Frost clung to the trees below her.

She leaned over the balcony’s wall and closed her eyes, trying to calm the cacophony of thoughts that shot through her mind. She rubbed her temples and concentrated on steadying her breathing. She wished she had the foresight to have grabbed one more drink.

Her hands were shaking. As much as she wished it didn’t, the meeting with the man from Wycome had disoriented and jarred her. Who was she? Was he right, was she an imposter? Was she pretending to be the type of person who could have all of this: stability, friendship, power, and... love?

A noise came from behind her and she looked up. Of course--Solas had found her. Birds began to chatter and chirp as they awoke, entirely unaware of the proceedings of the evening. Dimly, she felt jealous of them.

“I’m not surprised to find you out here.” He leaned over the railing next to her.

“You seem to have a knack for knowing where I am.”

“You did very well tonight. It was a clever move to reunite Briala and Celene.”

“It seems... unreal. I achieved more in one night than I ever did in all the years I spent playing vigilante in the Free Marches.”

“For now, focus on what’s in front of you.” He placed his hand on her back before withdrawing from the railing. “Come, before the band stops playing, dance with me.” He held out his hand to her and she took it, drawing herself into him.

They danced for only a moment before her hand found the back of his neck and she pulled him closer. She kissed him, and he grabbed at her waist. Together they moved towards the wall of the palace, her back against the cold marble, his hand moving into her hair, pulling curls out of her carefully coiffed bun. He kissed deeper and she felt his tongue in her mouth. He pulled away and kissed her along her cheek, once on her neck, his other hand on the small of her back.

She wanted him. She needed him. She sought comfort in his closeness, aware that moments like this with him would be fleeting. The alcohol and the emotions coursing through her spurred her on, causing her to be reckless. Although somewhere inside, she knew it to be a fruitless endeavor, she wanted him to resolve the uncertainty she now felt.

Quenyah’s hand moved inside of his jacket, pulling it away to expose his collarbone. She kissed it, and looked up at him.

He looked at her with hesitation. “How are you feeling?”

It was the last thing she had expected him to say, yet there was some familiar constancy in how often he did something unexpected. “I’m feeling like... I want you.”

He brushed back her hair and looked over the features of her face. “You have me, vhenan.”


End file.
